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I LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, | 


Chap. T.E in 7 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. ^ 
>»iO»!mgS£gg»SB£g^^ 




'It 


















THE SIXTH READER AND SPEAKER. 







THE 


FRANKLIN 

SIXTH EEADEE 

AND 

4 

SPEAKER: 


CONSISTING OF EXTRACTS IN PROSE AND VERSE, WITH BIOGRAPHICAL 
AND CRITICAL NOTICES OF THE AUTHORS. 



BY 


GEORGE S. HILLARD and HOMER B. SPRAGUE. 

V P 

WITH 


AN INTRODUCTION ON ELOCUTION, 

By prof. SPRAGUE. 


WITH NEW AND ORIGINAL lUHSTRATIONS. 


BOSTON: 

BREWER AND TILE 

1876 . 






% 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, 
BY GEORGE S. HILLARD, 
in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 


University Press: Welch, Bigelow, & Co., 
Cambridge. 


s . 


PREFACE. 


T he Franklin Sixtli Eeader and Speaker corresponds, in 
the gr^e of its selections and in many other essential 
respects, with ‘‘ Hillard’s First Class Eeader,” of the first serins, 
and “ The Sixth Eeader ” of the one which followed, and is, 
like those publications, intended for use in high schools, and 
for the most advanced classes in our public grammar and in 
private schools. While the main object in its compilation 
has been to teach the art of good reading, both by furnish¬ 
ing a choice variety of selections best adapted for practice 
and reading exercises, and by the preparation of the most 
complete and thorough rhetorical instructions on the part 
of its authors and compilers, it has also been their design 
to give to this work somewhat more of an elocutionary char¬ 
acter than either of its predecessors. 

With this view a wide range of selections has been made, 
in order that the pupil may be trained to give proper form and 
expression to every variety of style. At the same time, with 
the view that this compilation may be used with more ad¬ 
vantage in rhetorical instruction, it will be found to contain 
a larger proportion of animated and declamatory selections. 
The com.pilers have endeavored to enable their youthful 



VI 


PREFACE. 


readers to make themselves familiar with some of the treas¬ 
ures of English and American literature, so far as to do so 
has been found consistent with their one great aim, the pre¬ 
paring a good reading-hook. In this view they have been 
constrained to retain a large number of the best pieces which 
have been found so acceptable in the “ Sixth Eeader.” These 
occupy about one third part of the present volume. 

The compilers have retained several pieces which have 
long been familiar to all persons acquainted with English 
literature, and which may to some extent be pronounced 
hackneyed; such as Gray’s “ Elegy,” Cowper’s “ Slavery,” etc. 
But the permanent popularity of such pieces is due to their 
intrinsic merit, and they ought not to he displaced to make 
room for productions which are only commended by the 
gloss of novelty, but will not wear so well as those on which 
time has set its lasting seal of approval. In retaining these 
the compilers have been guided, not only by their own judg¬ 
ment, but by the express wishes of several teachers who were 
desirous that selec^ns should be retained which have so well 
borne the sharp test of daily use. 

In the preparation of the work the compilers have been 
aided by the judgment and experience of many practical 
teachers, especially several masters of grammar schools in 
this city, whose services and interest are gratefully remem¬ 
bered. 


Boston, September, 1874. 


CONTENTS 



INTRODUCTION. 


The Voice in Elocution.13 

Force.13 

Volume .17 

Movement.20 

Pitch .24 

Slides .25 

Stress.28 

Quality.31 

Suggestions in Regard to Vocal Expression.36 

Gesture in Elocution.55 

I. Gestures of Place.57 

II. Imitative Gestures.79 

III. Emphatic Gestures.92 

IV. Conventional Gestjjres.100 

V. Gestu^s of actual Performance.100 

Directions . . . . 'T . . 100 


LESSONS IN PROSE. 


1 . 

3. 

6 . 


7. 

8 . 

11 . 

15. 

16. 
19. 


Constitutional Obligations of the 

American People . ~. 

The Burning of Moscow. 

American Battle-Flags. 

The Contrast ; or, Peace and War . 

The Miseries of War. 

The Slave-Trade. 

Three Pictures of Boston . . . . 

Death and BumAL of Little N^l . 
Dialogue from Ivanhoe. 


John QiUncy Adams 


Carl Schurz<\. . . 

Ather^um : . . 

JRev. Robert Hall . 
Webster . . . . 

Edward Everett . 
ChaHes Dickms 
Sir Walter Scott . 


103 - 
106 
117 
123 
126 
136 
150 
154 
164 






















Vlll 


CONTENTS. 


20 . 

22 . 

23. 

25. 

28. 

30. 

31. 

33. 

34. 

36. 

37. 

39. 

40. 

43. 

44. 

47. 

48. 
51. 

54. 

55. 

56. 
60. 
61. 
62. 
65. 
68 . 
69. 
71. 
79. 
82. 
85. 

89. 

90. 

91. 
93. 
98. 

100 . 

102 . 

106. 

107. 

108. 


The Voyage. Washington Irving 

Oppo^tion to Independence . . . Webster .... 

Mr. Adams’s Reply. “ .... 

Eternity of God .... Mev. Francis W. P. Greenwood 

Pearl at Play.V . Nathaniel Hawthorne 

Personal Appearance and Character 

OF Washington. Rev. Jared Sparks 

Washiwpon’s Genius. E. P. Whi'^ole. . 

The Character of Grattan . . . Sydney Smith . . 

Finite and Infinite . R. U. Winthrop . 

The Reform that is needed . . . Rev. Horjice Bushncll 

Obligations of America to England Everett . . . . 

God in Nature. Rev. Edwin H. Chapin 


The White Mountains .... 

John Hampden. 

A Taste for Reading .... 
Execution of Mary, Queen of Scots 
The Trial of Warren Hastings . 
Eulogy on O'Connell . . . 

Incentives to Duty . . . 

The Western Posts . . . 

The Future of America 

Kossuth. 

True Greatness. 

The Uses of the Ocean . . 

Joan of Arc . 

Voices of the Dead . . . 

The Boston Tea Catastrophe 

The Bible. 

Dangers to our Republic . 
American Nationality . . 

Around Yosemite Walls 
Lafayette’s Visit to America in 1825 
Personal Influence . . . 

Speech on the American War 
The Old World and the New 

James Otis. 

Spartacus to the Gladiators 

Books . 

The Honored Dead . . . 

America the Old World . 

A Tribute to Massachusetts 


Rev. T. Starr King 
Macaulay . . . 

George S. Hillard. 
Lingard .... 
Macaulay . . . 

W. H. Seward 
Sumner .... 

Ames . 

Webster .... 
Horace Mann . 

A 

Channing . 

Rev. Leonard Swain 
Thomas He Quincey 
Rev. John Gumming 
Thomas Carlyle 


Horace Mann 
Choate 

Clarence King 
Josiah Quincy 
W. R. Williams 
Lord Chatham 
Horace Greeley 
Sumner . . 

Rev. Elijah Kellogg 
E. P. Whipple 
H. W. Beecher 
Louis Agassiz . 
Sumner .... 


169 

177 

178 
184 
191 

201 

204 

211 

212 

215 

217 

223 

225 

233 

237 

243 

248 

258 

268 

272 

275 

285 

288 

290 

301 

310 

314 

320 

345 

353 

363 

376 

379 

382 

389 

398 

402 

411 

421 

423 

427 























CONTENTS . ix 

109. Napoleon ; or, The Man of the 

WoiiLi). Ralph W . Emerson 428 

112. National Injustice. Theodore Parker . 436 

113. Oliver Cromwell. Goldwin Smith . 438 

115. My Garden Acquaintance . . . . James Russell Lowell 441 

LESSONS IN POETRY. 

2. To A Waterfowl. Wm . C . Bryant . 105 

4. Ye MARmERS of England .... Campbell . . .Ill 

5. tHE Polish Boy. Mrs . A . S . Stephens 112 

9. Winter. James R . Lowell . 129 

10. The Old Clock on the Stairs . . . H . IV . Longfellow 133 

12. The Battle of Flodden Field . . . Sir Walter Scott . 139 

13. “ { Concluded ) “ “ 143 

14. Henry V. before the Battle of Agin- 

coupj’. Shakespeare . . .147 

17. The Watcher on the Tower . . . Charles Mackay . 159 

18. The Pilgrim Fathers. Rev . John Pierpont 162 

21. The Fa^ of Poland. Campbell . . .173 

24. Youth . '..182 

26. The goq^d great Man. Coleridge . . . 188 

27. ' Slavery. Cowper .... 189 

29. Charge of the Light Brigade . . Tennyson . . . 199 

32. Pa^ Revere’s Ride. Longfellow . . . 206 

35. The New Year. Tennyson . . .214 

38. Address to the Mummy in Belzoni’s 

Exhibition, London . . . . K . Horace Smith . . 220 

41. Abraham Davenport. John G . Whittier . 230 

42. Richelieu’s Vindication. Bulwer .... 232 

45. Bringing our Sheaves with us . . Elizabeth Akers . 240 

46. Lines to a Child, on his Voyage to 

France, to meet his Father . . Rev . Hewry Ware , Jr . 241 

49. Charles Sumner . . . . “T . . . John G . Whittier . 253 

50. June. Lowell .... 256 

52. Hubert and Arthur. Shakespeare . . . 262 

53. Warren’s Address before the Bat¬ 

tle OF Bunker Hill. Pierpont .... 267 

57. The Launching of the Ship . . . Longfellow . . .211 

58. Over the River. Miss Priest . . . 280 

59. Hymn in the Valley of Chamouni . Coleridge . . . 282 
























X 


CONTENTS. 


63 . 

64 . 
66 . 
67 . 
70 . 

72 . 

73 . 

74 . 

75 . 

76 . 

77 . 

78 . 
80 . 
81 . 

83 . 

84 . 
86 . 

87 . 

88 . 
92 . 

94 . 

95 . 

96 . 

97 . 
99 . 

101 . 

102 . 

104 . 


] 05 . 

110 . 

111 . 

114 . 


Greece, in 1809 . 


Lord Byron . . . 

295 

Thanatopsis. 


Bryant .... 

298 

On the Death of a Child . . 

• • 

Lowell . . . . 

305 

The Angels of Buena Vista . 

• • 

Whittier . . . 

307 

Intimations of Immortality . 

• • 

Wordsworth . . 

317 

William Tell. 


Sheridan Knowles 

322 

William Tell { Concluded ) . . 

• • 

ii 

• « * • • 

325 

The Battle of Naseby . . . 

• • 

Macaulay . . . 

329 

The Widow of Glencoe . . . 

• • 

Aytoun . . . . 

331 

The Antiquity of Freedom 

• • 

Bryant .... 

334 

The Pilgrim Fathers .... 


Sprague .... 

337 

WOLSEY AND CitOMWELL . . . 

• • 

Shakespeare . . 

341 

Hallowed Ground. 



347 

The Execution of Montrose . 

• • 

Wm . E . Aytoun . 

350 

The Kising in 1776 . . . . 


Thomas B . Read . 

357 

God. 


Derzhavin . 

360 

The Conqueror’s Grave . . . 

• • 

Bryant .... 

369 

Song of the Greeks . . . . 


Campbell . . . 

371 

Parental Ode to my Infant Son . 

Hood . 

373 

Alpine Scenery. 


Byron .... 

386 

The Heritage. 


Lowell .... 

391 

Jenny Lind’s Greetings to America. 

Bayard Taylor 

394 

Hymn of Praise by Adam and 

Eve . 

Milton .... 

395 

Union and Liberty . . . . 

* • 

0 . W . Holmes . 

397 

The Pauper’s Death-Bed . . 

• • 

Mrs . C . B . Southey 

401 

Lochiel’s Warning. 


Campbell . . . 

406 

Extract from Rienzi .... 

% * 

Miss Mitford . . 

409 

Elegy writen in a Country Church- 



yard. 


Gray . 

413 

He giveth his Beloved Sleep 

• * 

Mrs . Browning 

419 

The Lord of Butrago . . . 

t • 

J . G . Lockhart 

433 

Milton on his Blindness . . 

• • 

Elizabeth Lloyd . 

434 

Burial of John Quincy Adams 

• • 

Bierpont .... 

440 
















1 


INDEX OF AUTHORS. 


♦ 





Page 

Adams, John Quincy 

• 

• • 

. 103 

Agassiz, Louis 



423 

Akers, Elizabeth 



. 240 

Ames, Fisher. 



272 

Anonymous 

• 

• • 

. 106, 182, 320 

Athenaeum .... 



123 

Aytoun, William E. 



. 331, 350 

Beecher, Henry Ward 



421 

Browning, Mrs. 

• 


. 419 

Bryant, William C. 



. 105, 298, 334, 369 

Bulwer .... 



. 232 

Bushnell, Key. Horace 



215 

Byron . . . 



. 295, 386 

Campbell, Thomas 



111, 173, 347, 371, 406 

Carlyle, Thomas 



. 314 

Channing, Rev. Willia.m E. 



. . . 288 

Chapin, Rev. Edwin H. . 

• 

• • 

... .223 

Chatham, Lord 



382 

Choate, Rufus . 



. 353 

Coleridge .... 



188, 282 

COWPER .... 



. 189 

De Quincey, Thomas . 



301 

Derzhavin . . . 



. 360 

Emerson, Ralph W. 



428 

Everett, Edward 



. 150, 217 

Gray, Thomas 



413 

Greenwood, Rev. F. W. P. 

* 

* • 

. 184 

Greeley, Horace . 



389 

Hall, Rev. Robert . 



. 124 

Hawthorne, Nathaniel 



191 

Hillard, George S. . 

• 

• • 

. 237 

Holmes, 0. W. . 



397 





















XU 


INDEX OF AUTHORS 


Hood ...... 

Kellogg, Elijah . 

King, Clahence 
King, Rev. Thomas Starr . 
Knowles, Rev. James Sheridan 
Lingard . . . 

Lloyd, Elizabeth 
Lockhart 

Longfellow, Henry W. 

Lowell, James Russell 
Macaulay . . . 

Mackay, Charles . 

Mann, Horace . 

Milton .... 
Mitford, Miss . 

Parker, Rev. Theodore 
Pierpont, Rev. John 
Priest, Miss . 

Quincy,. Josiah . 

Read, Thomas B. . 

Scott, Sir Walter . 

Seward, William H. . 
Shakespeare 
S ciiuRz, Carl 
Smith, Goldwin 
Smith, Horace 
Smith, Sydney . 

Southey, Mrs. 

Sparks, Rev. Jared . 

Spbague, Charles 
Stephens, Mrs. 

Sumner, Charles . 

Swain, Rev. Leonard 
Taylor, Bayard . 

Tennyson, Alfred . 

Webster, Daniel . 

Whipple, E. P. . 

Whittier, John G. 

Williams, Rev. W. R. 

WiNTiiROP, Robert C. . 
Wordsworth 


• • 


• • 


• • 


. 322, 


. 133, 206, 

29, 256, 305, 391, 
. 248, 


285, 


162, 


139, 

147, 


267, 


143, 

262, 


268, 398, 


. 199, 

136, 177, 178, 
. 204, 

253, 


373 

402 

363 

225 

325 

243 

434 

433 

277 

441 

329 

159 

345 

395 

408 

436 

440 

280 

376 

357 

164 

258 

341 

117 

438 

220 

211 

401 

201 

337 

112 

427 

290 

394 

214 

275 

410 

307 

379 

212 

317 














INTRODUCTION. 


♦ex- 

THE VOICE IH ELOCUTION. 

“Tliere is in souls a sympathy with sounds.” 

COWPER. 

FORCE. 

Of the fourteen vowel sounds in our language, some require 
for their enunciation more force than others. Thus the sound 
of a as in ah, and that of o as in oh, are louder than that of 
00 in foot or i in Jit. So the diphthong sound ou as in growl 
is a little stronger than that of ii as in twie. A strong sound 
is naturally fit to express strength; a weak one to express 
weakness.'*' 

A. similar difference exists among the twenty-two conso¬ 
nants. Thus the sounds of r, gr, h, str, thr, are strong. This 
fact will be perceptible in the articulation of rave, rail, rend, 
rip, rear, roar, grapple, grasp, grind, gripe, groan, growl, 
harsh, ha id, horrid, strain, strangle, strive, stress, strike, strug¬ 
gle, thrash, thrill, throw, throb, thrust, throttle. But the sound 
of I is weak; as in lave, lay, lick, linger, lisp, loll, love, lull. 


* The difference in tlie fitness of vowels to express loud or soft sounds is 
seen in comparing words whose consonants are the same or nearly so. Tlie 
stronger vowel usually expresses the louder sound. Compare croak , crack , 
and the obsolete crick ; squall and squeal ; snore and sneer ; snort , snuff , 
and sniff ; snarl and snivel . Or the strong vowel expresses greater force. 
Compare spout and spit , groan and grin , strong and string , master and 
mistress , thank and think , glare and glitter . In some other languages tliis 
difference is more perceptible than in ours. In some of the languages of the 
Scythian stock, as in the Magyar and the Turkish, the heavy vowels, a , o , u , 
are called masculine ; the light, e , i , o , u , feminine. In the Mantchoo, we 
find ama meaning father, erne mother; kaka is male, keke female; amka 
father-in-law, emke mother-in-law; kankan a strong spirit, kenken a feeble 






14 


THE SIXTH READER. 


lute. W at the beginning of a word has the’ weak sound of 
00 ; as in waft, warble, wave, weave, well, wind, wind, willow.^ 

Many poets have successfully exerted their skill in selecting 
words the sound of which fitly expresses the loud or soft 
sounds they wish to describe, and the strength or weakness 
they wish to paint. Thus in Milton’s description of the battle 
of the angels : — 

Now storming fury rose, 

And clamor such as heard in heaven till now 
Was never. Arms on armor clashing brayed 
Horrible discord. 

By contrast take his description of soft music : —• 

And ever, against eating cares, 

Lap me in soft Lydian airs 
Mai-ried to immo'rtal verse ; 

Such as the meeting soul may pierce, 

In notes with many a winding bout 
Of linkM sweetness long drawn out 
AVith wanton heed and giddy cunning, 

The melting voice through mazes running, 

Untwisting all the chains that tie 
The hidden soul of harmony. 

From the same author take this description of the last 
exhibition of Samson’s tremendous strength; — 

As with the force of winds and waters pent 
When mountains tremble, those two massy pillars, 


spirit. In the Tartar-Turkish, savmak means to hate, sevmek to love ; tlie 
former being the stronger emotion with a barbarian ! In the Semitic lan¬ 
guages, “ the weaker vowels i and u often convey a less active meaning as com¬ 
pared with the strong full a.” Thus, in the Arabic, “ The three consonants q , t , 
I, form a root which conveys the idea of killing ; then qatala means ‘ he 
killed,’ qutila , ‘ he was killed.’ Every active verb, like qatala , has its corre¬ 
sponding passive, quiUa ." See Whitney on “Language and the Study of 
Language,” pp. 301, 302 ; and Preface to Wedgwood’s “ Dictionary of Eng¬ 
lish Etymology.” Compare the positive indicative Latin sxon , es , est , sumus , 
estis , sunt , I am, you are, he is, etc., with the contingent siibjunctivesfm, sis , 
sit , simus , sitis , sint , I may be, thou mayst be, etc. In German, danken 
is to thank ; denken , to think . See note, p. 18. 



INTRODUCTION. 


15 


With horrible convulsion, to and fro 

He tugged, he shook, till down they came and drew 

The whole roof after them with burst of thunder. 

Contrast Cleopatra’s last words as the poisonous serpent at 
her breast is stinging her to death. (Shakespeare’s “Antony 
and Cleopatra,” Act V. Sc. 2 .) 

Chasm IAN {to Cleopatra). 0 Eastern star ! 

Cleopatra. Peace ! peace ! 

Dost thou not see my baby at my breast 
That sucks the nurse asleep ? 

Charmian. 0, break ! 0, break ! 

Cleopatra. As sweet as balm, as soft as air, as gentle, — 

0 Antony ! — Nay, I will take thee too : — 

(Applying another asp to her arm.) 

What should I stay — (Falls on a bed and dies.) 

Eead in Shakespeare’s “ King Henry the Fifth ” the monarch’s 
animating words to his soldiers at the siege of Harlleur: — 

But when the blast of war blows in our ears, 

Then imitate the action of the tiger ! 

Stiflen the sinews, summon up the blood. 

Disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage : 

Then lend the eye a terrible aspect; 

Let it pry through the portage of the head ^ 

Like the brass cannon. ' 

Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide ; 

Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit 

To his full height! On, on, you noble English ! 

• « • • • 

Cry — “ Heaven for Hariy ! England ! and Saint George ! ” 
For contrast with the preceding, read Young’s description 
of the languid lady : — 

The languid lady next appears in state. 

Who was not born to carry her own weight; 

She lolls, reels, staggers, till some foreign aid 
To her own stature lifts the feeble maid. 

Then, if ordained to so severe a doom, 

. She by just stages journeys round the room ; 

But, knowing her own weakness, she despairs 
To scale the Alps ! that is, ascend the stairs ! 



16 


THE SIXTH READER. 


“ My fan,” let others say, who laugh at toil. 

“ Fan — hood — glove — scarf,” is her laconic style j 
And that is spoke with such a dying fall 
That Betty rather sees than hears the call. 

Again, what power of voice is sufficient t 6 adequately ex¬ 
press Satan’s magnificent call to his millions of fallen angel 
warriors, who lay stunned on the fiery flood ? 

He called so loud that all the hollow deep 
Of hell resounded ; “ Princes ! Potentates ! 

Warriors ! the flower of heaven, once yours, now lost, 

If such astonishment as this can seize 
Eternal spirits : or have ye chosen this place 
After the toil of battle to repose 
Your wearied virtue, for the ease you find 
To slumber here, as in the vales of heaven ? 

Or in this abject posture have ye sworn 
- To adore the Comiueror ? who now beholds 
Cherub and seraph rolling in the flood 
With scattered arms and ensigns, till anon 
His swift pursuers from heaven gates discern 
The advantage, and descending tread us down 
Thus drooping, or with linked thunderbolts 
Transfix us to the bottom of this gulf. 

Awake, arise; or be forever fallen ! ” 

On the other hand, silence, like that of a clear midnight, 
requires a very different degree of force. Thus, in Shelley’s 
“ Queen Mab ” : — 

• 

How beautiful this night ! The balmiest sigh 
Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening’s ear 
Were discord to the speaking quietude 
That Avraps this moveless scene. Heaven’s ebon vault. 

Studded with stars unutterably bright. 

Through which the moon’s unclouded grandeur rolls. 

Seems like a canopy which Love has spread 
To curtain her sleeping world. Yon gentle hills, 

Kobed in a garment of untrodden snow ; 

Yon darksome rocks whence icicles depend. 

So stainless that their white and glittering spires 


INTRODUCTION. 


17 


Tinge net tlie moon’s pure beam ; you castled steep, 

Whose banner hangeth o’er the time-worn tower 
So idly that rapt fancy deemeth it ^ 

A metaphor of peace, — all form a scene 
Where musing solitude might love to lift 
Her soul above this sphere of earthliness ; 

Where silence undisturbed might watch alone. 

So cold, so bright, so still. 

From the foregoing considerations and examples we evolve 
Force as an element of vocal expression in elocution ; and we 
see that loudness and energy are naturally expressed by a 
louder or more energetic voice than feebleness, languor, or 
silence. 

How loud should one speak or read 1 Evidently and always, 
loud enough to be heard without the slightest effort on the 
part of the audience. E^ot only so, but one should commonly 
use a somewhat greater degree of force than this, in order to 
allow room for variation of the voice by diminution. 

This degree of force which is recommended for all ordinary 
occasions, and which is somewhat above the degree of loudness 
that would naturally be used in conversation, may be styled 
moderate ; a higher degree may be termed loud or strong., and 
a lower, soft, slight, or weak. 

‘ Strong force is usually appropriate to joy, mirth, distress, 
surprise, scorn, impatience, and remorse, when these emotions 
are powerful; also to anger, rage, defiance, terror, excited 
command, and energetic decision. Moderate force should be 
used when no special reason can be given for any other. 
Slight force is generally used in tranquillity, tenderness, sor¬ 
row, pity, quiet contempt, secrecy, fear, awe, solemnity, rever¬ 
ence,‘and utter despair. 


VOLUME. 

The sounds of i in pit, e in pet, u in put, a in pat, o in 
pot, are small. Those of a in far, o in foe, a in fall, are 
larger. The sound of short i is especially adapted to express 


18 


THE SIXTH READER. 


littleness; as in nit, flit, giggle, tittle, and a multitude of other 
words. 

We read in Holy Writ of “a still small voice,” and Shake¬ 
speare tells us of a “big manly voice.” Which of these is 
appropriate to the following extract from Tennyson 1 

0 mighty-mouthed inventor of harmonies ! 

0 skilled to sing of time and eternity ! 

God-gifted organ voice of England, 

Milton, a name to resound for ages ! 

Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel, 

Starred from Jehovah’s gorgeous armories, 

Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean 
Rings to the roar of an angel onset! 

On the contrary, what volume of voice bests suits the follow¬ 
ing from Poe ? 

Hear the sledges with the bells, silver bells ! 

What a world of merriment their melody foretells ! 

How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. 

In the icy air of night! 

While the stars, that oversprinkle 
All the heavens, seem to twinkle 
With a crystalline delight; 


* Diminutive nouns are usually formed by some termination that lias a 
short-sounding vowel. Thus -kin is appended; as lambkin, little lamb ; or -ock, 
as hillock, little hill; or -let, as streamlet, little stream; or -ling, as darling 
(for dear-ling), little dear ; or -ie, as Willie, little Will; Annie, little Ann. 
Some are formed by a change of vowel; as tip from top ; chick frotn cock; 
kitten from cat. Compare spout and spit; float, flout, fleet, and flit. The 
fitness of vowels to express size as well as force (see note, p. 13) is seen in 
other languages. Thus in Greek, /aoKpo?, makros, large; but /xi(cp6s, mikros, 
little ; 'ApTj?, Ares, god of war; but 'Epi?, Eris, goddess of discord; Kpui^o), 
krozo, croak; but /cpi'^w, krizo, creak. In Latin, the masculine ending w is 
changed to rix for the feminine ; as victor, victrix. In the German, we find 
hahn, a cock; but henne, a hen. In the Danish and Swedish, he is han, 
she is henne. In the Irish, many masculine nouns are changed to feminine 
by the insertion of the light vowel i after the radical vowel. These examples 
and those in the note on page 13 show that a correspondence between sound 
and sense, in the matter of strength and of size, extends to the very roots 
of language. See Excursus in Roehrig’s “ Shortest Road to German.” 



INTRODUCTION. 




Keeping time, time, time, 

In a sort of Runic rhyme, 

To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells 

From the bells, hells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, — 

• From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 

It needs no argument to show that in these two examples 
there sho'uld be a great difference in the size, if we may so 
speak, or, as we prefer to call it, the volume, of the voice. We 
instinctively open the mouth wide for full and resonant organ 
utterance in the former, and we narrow the vocal aperture for 
the slight yet sharp sounds of the sleigh-bells in the latter. 

By analogy, too, we may safely infer that large things re¬ 
quire a larger voice than small things. Contrast Byron’s mag¬ 
nificent apostrophe to the ocean with Burns’s exquisite address 
to a mouse : — 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll! 

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain. 

Wee sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie. 

Oh, what a panic’s in thy breastie ! 

Thou need na start away sae hasty, 

Wi’ bickering brattle ! 

Naturally, when one would enlarge our conceptions of an 
object, he uses a large voice. In Tennyson’s “ Princess ” we 
read : — 

The great organ almost burst his pipes. 

Groaning for power and rolling through the court 
A long melodious thunder, to the sound 
Of solemn psalms ! 

How different the voice required in reading Shakespeare’s 
description of Queen Mab! 

She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes. 

In shape no bigger than an agate stone 
On the forefinger of an alderman. 

Drawn with a team of little atomies 
Over men’s noses as they lie asleep : 

Her wagon spokes made of long spinners’ legs ; 


20 


THE SIXTH READER. 


The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers ; 

The traces, of the smallest spider’s web ; 

The collars, of the moonshine’s watery beams : 

Her whip, of crickets’ bone ; the lash, of film : 

Her wagoner, a small gray-coated gnat, 

Not half so big as a round little worm 
Pricked from the lazy finger of a maid. 

•« 

From an attentive examination of such passages, we learn 
that the Volume of the voice is a very important element of ex¬ 
pression; and that the vast, the sublime, the mighty, require a 
larger voice than the small, the delicate, and the weak. Plere, 
too, a medium or moderate volume, as it allows of expansion 
or contraction to suit the varying needs of expression, is best 
adapted for all ordinary passages. Use it, therefore, whenever 
you know of no special reason for any other. 

Large volume is usually appropriate to joy, rage, defiance, 
command, awe, solemnity, horror; small volume, to tranquillity, 
cheerfulness, humor, tenderness, sorrow, pity, contempt, malice, 
secrecy, fear, and some moods of remorse, despair, and wonder. 

MOVEMENT. 

If we examine carefully the vowel sounds with reference to 
the time required to utter them, we shall find that those which 
we have characterized, under the two foregoing heads, as 
strong and large, are more prolonged than some of those which 
we have designated as weak and little. Contrast the time of 
the 0 in ho with the time of the o in hot; the a in hall with 
the a in hat; the a in large with the i in little. Contrast 
slope and slipi, float and flit, gloom, gleam, and glim (Scotch). 
Some of the consonant sounds also are much more prolonged 
than others. Thus the ng in song is necessarily longer than 
the t in sot. Elementary sounds, then, differ in the rate or 
time of utterance. 

Keeping this hint in mind, what element of vocal expression 
do we discern in the following utterance of Hamlet, when in¬ 
formed by the ghost in regard to his father’s murder 1 


INTRODUCTION. 


21 


Haste me to know it, that I, with wings as swift 
As meditation or the thoughts of love, 

May sweep to my revenge ! 

By way of contrast, read sympathetically the following from 
Dr. Samuel Johnson : — 

Slow rises worth by poverty depressed. 

In the utterance of these two examples we find ourselves 
spontaneously and almost irresistibly swayed by the meaning. 
Before we are aware, our voices are hurried or slackened, as if 
to correspond with the motion described. For further illus¬ 
tration, enter into the spirit of the two following extracts, and 
then read them with feeling. The first is from Cowper : — 

How fleet is .the glance of the mind ! 

Compared with the speed of its flight. 

The tempest itself lags behind. 

The swift-winged arrows of light! 

The next is from Milton : — 

Oft, on a plot of I’ising ground, 

I hear the far-olf curfew sound 
Over some wide-watered shore. 

Swinging slow with sullen roar. 

Evidently the mind and the tongue adapt their movements 
to the movements described.'^ 


* Great concentration of thought requires slow utterance, to give the mind 
of the listener time to take in the meaning. In President Lincoln’s first in¬ 
augural message he condenses a great deal of thought into very few words. 
Thus : — 

“Can aliens make treaties easier than friends can make laws? Can treaties be 
enforced between aliens easier than laws among friends ? ” 

In St. Paul’s Epistle to the Romans w^e have, — 

“Now, if the fall of them be the riches of the world, and the diminishing of them 
the riches of the Gentiles, how much more their fulness ! ” 

Landor says, — 

“ Love is a secondary passion with those who love most ; a primary with those that 
love least.” 



22 


THE SIXTH READER. 


We are told that the Australian savages seek to give by 
repetition the impression of great distance. Thus, — 

He went through the wood, through the wood, across the plain, across 
the plain, across the plain, by the sea, by the sea, by the sea, by the 
sea. 

In like manner we sometimes repeat for the same reason. 
Thus, — 

Far, far at sea. 

But oftener we convey the notion of distance hy prolonging 


So Emerson condenses a great deal of meaning into the following stanza : —• 

Oh, tenderly the haughty Day 
Fills his blue urn with fire ! 

One mom is on the mighty sea. 

And one in our desire." 

So, too, the following from Shakespeare : — 

Love goes towards love, as school-boys from their books ; 

But love from love, towards school with heavy looks. 

All these require to he read with great slowness, so that the full meaning 
may be grasped. 

On the contrary, where the thought just skims the surface, a rapid move¬ 
ment may be proper. Thus, in Tennyson’s Brook Song ” : — 

I wind about, and in and out. 

With here a blossom sailing. 

And here and there a lusty trout. 

And here and there a grayling, 

And here and there a foamy fiake 
Upon me as I travel, 

With many a silvery water-break 
Above the golden gravel; 

And draw them all along, and flow 
To join the brimming river ; 

For men may come and men may go. 

But I go on forever. 

And out again I curve and flow 
To join the brimming river; 

For men may come and men may go. 

But I go on forever. 

At the outset of a speech, great slowness is commonly required for two 
reasons : first, to convey to the audience ideas of special importance ; sec¬ 
ondly, because the minds of the listeners are not yet aroused to quick action. 





INTRODUCTION. 


23 


the sound. Eead the following lines, prolonging the sound of 
far about two seconds, and observe the effect on the mind : — 

For I dipt into the future far as human eye could see. 

So seemed, far off, the flying fiend. 

1 It will he observed that the more the sound is prolonged 
V the greater seems the distance. While the voice is uttering 
the words, the mind traverses, as it were, the space; or half im- 
agines itself so employed. Tor further illustration, note the 
impression conveyed by dwelling one or two seconds on each 
of the accented sounds that are capable of prolongation in the 
following stanza from Conder ; — 

Beyond, beyond the boundless sea, 

Above that dome of skv, 

Further than thought itself can flee, 

Thy dwelling is on high ; 

Yet dear the awful thought to me. 

That thou, 0 God, art nigh ! 

\ 

We have, then, by this examination, evolved Movement, 
often called rate, or time, as an important element of vocal 
expression. 

Excitement of all kinds, as in joy, impatience, rage, terror, 
surprise, quickens the pulse and the utterance. Emotions that 
soothe, hush, repress, or subdue, naturally make the utterance 
slow j as in pity, sorrow, awe, reverence, despair. States of 
mind that neither excite nor depress naturally require a mod¬ 
erate movement of the voice. 

As in the case of force and volume, it is well for the student 
to adopt, in regard to movement, a medium between extremes, 
in reading or speaking aU ordinary passages.*" 


* The mechanical means of reading or speaking slowly are twofold : first, 
by pausing long between sentences, words, and syllables ; secondly, by pio- 
longing the sounds that are capable of being lengthened. These methods 
may be combined in the slowest passages. 




24 


THE SIXTH READER. 


PITCH. 

The sound of i as in ivit is produced comparatively high in 
the throat. The sound of u as in murmur is produced com¬ 
paratively low in the throat. The former is naturally adopted 
to express what is clear or shrill; the latter, what is obscure 
or deep in tone. The same distinction is observable, though 
to a less extent, between a in at and a in all; also, in a still 
slighter degree, between a in ah and o in oh. The first vowel 
in each of these pairs is naturally uttered in a little higher key 
than the second. 

Shakespeare speaks of the change from manhood to old age 
and to second childhood, when the 

Big manly voice, 

Turning to childish treble, pipes 
And whistles iu his sound. 

In reading these lines, a highly imaginative person finds his 
utterance involuntarily rising in pitch from the word “ turn¬ 
ing” to the word “whistles.” 

For there is an unconscious tendency to imitate the pitch 
of sounds which we describe. We speak of the “ear-piercing 
fife ” in a slightly higher key than we use when we mention 
“the deep, dull tambour’s beat.” We recognize, then. Pitch, 
as an element in vocal expression. 

In Nature, high sounds are usually produced by small things ; 
low, by things relatively large. We recognize, and in some 
degree express unwittingly by the voice, this difference in the 
following stanzas ; the first from Shelley’s “ Ode to a Skylark,” 
the second from Mrs. Sigourney’s “Burial of Ashmun” : — 

All the earth and air 
With thy voice is loud, 

As, when night is hare. 

From one lonely cloud 

The moon rains out her beams and heaven is overflowed ! 


INTRODUCTION. 


25 


Tlie hoarse wave murmured low: 

The distant surges roared, 

And o’er the sea, in tones of woe, 

A deep response was poured. 

In N^ature, high sounds are usually produced by rapid mo¬ 
tions also; low, by relatively slow vibrations. Contrast the 
following, as you read them sympathetically ; — 

The fine, high, penetrating, musical note of the mosquito is produced 
by ail inconceivably swift motion of the insect’s wings. 

0, it’s monstrous, monstrous ! 

^Methought the billows spoke and told me of it, 

Tlie winds did sing it to me, and the thunder. 

That deep and dreadful organ-pipe of nature. 

Pronounced the name of Prosper ; it did bass 
My trespass. Shakespeare. 

No property of the voice is more wonderful than that which 
this analysis brings to light. The Chinese are said to have 
less than five hundred radical words; but, by a simple varia¬ 
tion of the musical pitch, they are enabled to express by these 
same roots many thousands of meanings. 

The famous singer Catalani is said to have had a voice of the 
compass of three octaves. Ordinary voices have about two. 

A high pitch is appropriate to those moods in which the 
soul goes out to others; as in cheerfulness, mirth, joy, distress, 
pity, impatience, rage, defiance, terror, surprise. A low pitch is 
best for those in which the soul proudly or fearfully retires 
within itself; as in malice, awe, solemnity, reverence, horror, 
despair. The pitch of voice natural for each person is, in all 
ordinary cases, the one to be used by him, when no special 
reason can be discovered for deviation. 

SLIDES. 

We have seen that many vocal sounds are capable of being 
prolonged. During such prolongation the pitch may change. 
These changes are called Slider 


26 


THE SIXTH READER. 


In asking, for the sake of gaining information, a question 
that may be answered by “ yes ” or “ no,” there is an upward 
slide. Thus, if I ask earnestly in regard to an incredible re¬ 
port, “ Are you sure ? ” there is a long upward slide on the 
word “ sure.” If you reply with equal earnestness and em¬ 
phasis, “ I am sure,” there is clearly a downw^ard slide on the 
word “ am.” 

The rising slide inquires; the falling asserts.! The word 
on which the voice rises or falls is always that which mainly 
expresses the sense of the speaker. Thus, “ Is a candle brought 
forth to be ,put under a bushel, or under a bM h ” Here, if the 
voice falls on bed, as we have indicated by the accent, an 
erroneous meaning is conveyed, amounting to a virtual asser- 


* What is the philosophy of these upward and downward slides ? I have 
found no explanation ; but perhaps the true reason for the rising slide when 
a question is asked for information, to be answered by ‘‘yes” or “no,” is 
this ; The mind goes out, as it were, and the voice with it, towards the person 
of whom the inquiry is made. The tendency is forth, outward, communica¬ 
tive ; the feeling is social, tentative, objective ; the face is thrust forward ; 
the voice rises in the throat and tends to the lips. On the contrary, when 
one asserts, whether affirmatively or negatively, the slide is downward on 
that word which is felt by the speaker to mainly convey the assertion. This, 
perhaps, is because the mind comes back, as it were, from without, retires with¬ 
in itself, the face is drawn back, and the voice returns inward ; the soul then 
tlirusts out no feelers ; the consciousness of self is prominent; the attitude of 
mind is subjective, self-poised, self-sufficient. Intense earnestness, when one 
is addressing others with a view to persuade, not to drive them, will cause 
the emphatic words to be uttered in a higher key than the unemphatic ; but 
if one is soliloqiiizing, intense earnestness, with a view to reassure one’s self, 
causes the emphatic words to be uttered in a lower key. This subject 
deserves further investigation. 

t The reason why “ the voice falls ” in asking a question that is not to be 
answered by “yes” or “no” is, because such questions virtually assert. 
Thus, the question, “ How many prisoners did Washington capture at Tren¬ 
ton ? asserts that he did capture some. So, “ What are your views in 
regard to the tariff ? ” implies that you have views on that subject. 

The preponderance of the rising slide indicates an inquiring, tentative, 
receptive, sympathetic, objective, docile frame of mind. An habitual falling 
slide is characteristic of the opposite ; namely, a dogmatic, independent, 
diilactic, subjective, self-assertive disposition. 



/ INTRODUCTION, 


27 


tion that'a candle is to be placed under a bed ! So in Patrick 
Henry’s inquiry, “ When shall we be stronger? Will it be the 
next week, or the next year 1 ” Here, if the voice should slide 
down on year, the meaning would be, “We bIioII be stronger 
next year.” No such intention being in the speaker’s mind, 
the slide should be upward on hed and on year. Hence these 
two words are wrongly marked. They should have the upward 
slide. Again, “ He that hath no mdney, let him come.” Here 
the falling slide on money asserts that the lack of money makes 
no difference with the fulness of the invitation. But if we 
read it with the rising slide on money, we virtually insist on 
the inquiry whether the invited person has moliej", and we 
imply that if he has money, he is not invited ! 

Sometimes the voice winds from one pitch to another. 
Thus, in mockery, the word oh may be struck on a low note, 
and, the sound being prolonged, the voice may glide up through 
several tones of the musical scale, and then return towards the 
low note first uttered. This musical movement of the voice 
may be reversed. The movement is not direct, straightfor¬ 
ward, upright, or downright, but is winding, crooked, wriggling. 
By a deep analogy, this change of pitch often reveals a cor¬ 
responding state of mind, sinuous, insincere, indirect, mock¬ 
ing, to 

Keep the word of promise to our ear, 

‘ And break it to our hope. 

Thus, “ Oh ! you regretted the partition of Poland ! ” Here a 
sinuous pitch on oh and on the accented syllable of regretted 
gives edge to the sarcasm. 

, It must not be inferred, however, that this turn of voice is 
not often appropriate to honest, straightforward speech. Indeed, 
the most common use of it is to express or intimate a contrast; 
as to correct an error by admitting what is true and rebutting 
what is false. Your physician tells you that your friend, 
hopelessly ill of consumption, is “ better to-day ” ; but his cir¬ 
cumflex accent (i. e. winding pitch) on the word “ better,” or 


28 


THE SIXTH READER. 


“ to-day,” indicates clearly that the patient cannot hope for 
complete restoration to health. Teachers have constant occa¬ 
sion to use the circumflex. Thus, True, the sun is much, 
nearer the earth in winter; hut the rays fall so much more 
obliquely that we receive less heat.” 

Hy suggesting antitheses, the circumflex gives sprightliness 

to discourse. Thus : — 

I knew when seven justices could not take up a quarrel. But when 
the parties were met themselves, one of them thought but of an if; as, ' 
you said so, then I said so” ; and they shook hands and swore 
brothers. Your ^is the only peacemaker ! Much virtue in an if.* • 
Shakespeare. 

STRESS. 

If we examine a vowel sound when it is prolonged, we find 
the force or degree of loudness varying on dilferent parts. The 
first part of the sound may be loudest, as in the following quo¬ 
tations : — 

“ Bang ! went the blunderbuss.” 

Smack went the whip, round went the wheels. 

COWPER. 

And when the gun’s tremendous flash is o’er. 

Campbell. 

It is — it is the cannon’s opening roar. 

Byron. 

By an unconscious imitation, we here give greater Stress to 
the initial part of the vowel sound in hang, smack, gun's, can¬ 
non's. This is called initial stress, or radical + stress. 

Some sounds in nature and in art begin gently, increase, and 
then diminish. Thus : — 

It was the last swelling peal of yonder organ, — “ Their bodies rest in 
peace, but their name liveth evermore.” I catch the solemn sound ; I 


* The Irish have a good-humored sauciness in their peculiar circumflex 
slide; as in Sir Boyle Roche’s expostulation with his shoemaker: “ I told 
you to make one boot lArger than the other, and you’ve done just the oppo¬ 
site ; you’ve made one smaller than the other ! ” 

t “ Radical ” is from the Latin radix, root; as if the initial part of a sound 
were its root. 



INTRODUCTION. 


29 


echo that lofty strain of funeral triumph, “Their name liveth ever¬ 
more ! ” — Webstee,. 

Here on all the long vowels, as in last, peal, organ, peace, ever¬ 
more, sound, lofty, strain, name, the voice swells in the middle 
of the long'sound. This kind of stress is known to elocutiom 
ists as the median, or middle, stress. 

A few sounds are loudest at the last. The following may he 
so read as to give the stress on the very last part of the long 
sounds:— 

And nearer fast and nearer doth the red whirlwind come ; 

And louder yet, and yet more loud, from underneath that rolling cloud. 

Is heard the trumpet’s war-note proud, the trampling and the hum. 

Macaulay. 

When the final part of the sound of a vowel or diphthong is 
loudest, the stress is called stress.^ 

Abrupt, sudden sounds bear some analogy to abrupt, sud¬ 
den emotions and ideas. Anger, for example, is quick, passion¬ 
ate, explosive. Thus Antony speaks to Brutus and Cassius 
with initial stress : — 

Villains ! you did not so when your vile daggers 
Hacked one another in the sides of Cajsar : 

You showed your teeth like apes, and fawned like hounds, 

And bowed like bondmen kissing Caesar’s feet, 

Whilst damnM Casca, like a cur, behind. 

Struck CiBsar on the neck. 0, you flatterers ! 

Shakespeare. 

Gentle, swelling emotions naturally require corresponding 
median stress. Thus : — 

I pant for the music which is divine ; 

My heart in its thirst is a dying flower ; 

Pour forth the sound like enchanted wine ; 

Loosen the notes in a silver shower. 

Like an herbless plain for the gentle rain, 

I gasp, I faint, till they w'ake again ! 


* Final stress is termed by many elocutionists vanishing stress, the last part 
of the soimd being designated by them the “ vanish." 



30 


THE SIXTH READER. 


Let me drink in tlie music of that SAveet sound 
More, 0 more ! — I am thirsting yet. 

It loosens the serpent which care has bound 
Upon my heart, to stifle it. 

The dissolving strain, through every vein. 

Passes into my heart and brain ! 

Shelley. 

But when the feeling grows more intense during the brief 
time occupied in the utterance, the stress is often greatest on 
the last part of the prolonged sound. Thus, dogged obstinacy, 
growing momentarily more dogged, says, “ I won’t,” with sud¬ 
den force on the termination of the long vowel. So, impa¬ 
tience, growing more vehement, is uttered with the same final 
stress. Thus : — 

. Shame ! shame ! that in such a proud moment of life, 

Worth ages of history, when, had you but hurled 
One bolt at your bloody invader, that strife 

Between freemen and tyrants had spread through the world • 

That then — 0, disgrace upon manhood ! e’en then 

You should falter ! should cling to your pitiful breath ! ■ 

Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood men, 

And prefer a slave’s life to a glorious death ! 

Mooee. 

Among those emotions and states of mind which often 
require initial or “radical” stress are cheerfulness, mirth, joy, 
contempt, scorn, malice, scolding, anger, rage, defiance, com¬ 
mand, decision, fear, terror, surprise, wonder, and matter 
of fact. Among those which often require the middle or 
“median” stress are tranquillity, joy, delight, admiration, love, 
tenderness, sorrow, pity, reverence, solemnity, awe, and horror. 
Among those which often require the final or “ vanishing ” 
stress are obstinacy, impatience, distress, scorn, disgust, remorse. 

A tremor of the voice is called tremulous or “ intermittent ” 
stress ; as in the following : — 

She prayed, her withered hand uprearing, 

While Harry held her by the arm — 


INTRODUCTION, 


31 


“ God, who art never out of hearing, 

0 may he never more be warm ! ” 

Wordsworth. 

Extreme feebleness, fear, chilliness, agitation, may give rise 
to the intermittent stress. So may imitation. 

Some elocutionists speak also of what they term “ thor¬ 
ough ” stress,- in which the shouting tone is prolonged; as, — 

Rejoice, you men of Angiers ; ring your bells ! 

King John, your king and England’s, doth approach ! 

Open your gates, and give the victors way ! 

Shakespeare. 

Tliis stress is appropriate in calling to those at a great distance. 

Elocutionists, furthermore, mention what they style “ com- 
pound ” stress. It is a combination of the initial and the final. 
Thus, in derision, the circumflex slide begins and ends with 
considerable force : — 

“ 0, but he paused on the brink ! ” 

Generally, wherever the circumflex slide is proper, as in 
surprise, mockery, irony, or in admitting what is true and coup¬ 
ling it with limitations, there the compound stress may be 
requisite. 


QUALITY. 

Ben Jonson says of the letter r, “ It is the dog’s letter, and 
hurreth [trills] in the sound.” The hissing s is still more 
unpleasant to the ear. The English language still has many 
harsh consonant sounds, although it has been very greatly sof¬ 
tened during the last thousand years. 

Our piratical Saxon ancestors, on the shores of the stormy 
German Ocean, had an articulation as rough as their roaring 
winds and waves. Byron forcibly contrasts the Italian and 
the English in the following stanza : — 

I love the language, that soft bastard Latin, 

AVhich melts like kisses in a female mouth. 

And sounds as if it should be writ on satin. 

With syllables that breathe of the sweet south, 


32 


THE SIXTH READER. 


And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in, 

That not a single syllable seems uncouth ; 

Unlike our northern, whistling, grunting guttural. 

Which we ’re obliged to hiss and spit and sputter all! 

The element of vocal expression here suggested is termed 

Quality. 

Pure quality is opposed to aspimted, hissing, or whispering 
tones, suggestive of secrecy, of snakes, of geese, and of angry 
cats; to guttural tones, reminding of choking anger and of 
swine and swinish men; to hoarse or wheezy tones, indicative 
of exhaustion and disease ; to hollow or pectoral tones, hinting 
of ghosts and sepulchres; and to nasal tones, that tell of colds 
and whining and cant. 

A profusion of vowel sounds is pleasing to the ear; a pro¬ 
fusion of consonant sounds is annoying. The sweetness of 
music is largely due to its pure quality; and it is safe to assert, 
as a general principle, that beauty, purity, and all the milder 
virtues incline to clearness of voice. Thus : — 

I have heard some fine music, as men are wont to speak, — the play 
of orchestras, the anthems of choii’s, the voices of song that moved 
admiring nations. But in the lofty passes of the Alps 1 heard a music 
overhead from God’s orchestra, the giant peaks of rock and ice, cur¬ 
tained in by the driving mist and only dimly visible athwart the sky 
through its folds, such as mocks all sounds our lower worlds of art can 
ever hope to raise. I stood (excuse the simplicity !) calling to them in 
the loudest shouts I could raise, and listening in compulsory trance to 
their reply. I heard them roll it up through their cloudy worlds of 
snow, sifting out the harsh qualities that were tearing in it like demon 
screams of sin, holding on upon it as if it were a hymn they were fining 
to the ear of the great Creator, and sending it round and round in long 
reduplications of sweetness ; until finally, receding and rising, it trem¬ 
bled as it were among the quick gratulations of angels, and fell into the 
silence of the pure empyrean ! I had never any conception before of 
purity of sound, or what a simple sound may tell of purity by its own 
pure quality; and I could only exclaim, “0 my God, teach me this! 
Be this with me forever.” All other sounds are gone. The voices of 
yesterday, heard in the silence of entranced multitudes, are gone ; but 
that is wdth me still, and I trust will never cease to ring in my spirit 
till I go down to the chambers of silence itself! — Bushnell. 


INTRODUCTION. 


The harsh, the rough, the disagreeable, are akin to impure 
vocal qualities. We are not, however, to conclude that there 
is no room for the exercise of the latter. Anger, for example, 
may be heroic or even divine. There would be little strength 
of character without it, and there would' be no strength in 
speech without prominent consonant sounds. Thus : — 

I am astonished ! shocked ! to hear such principles eonfessed, — to 
hear them avowed in this house, or in this country; principles equally 
unconstitutional, inhuman, and unchristian ! 

“ That God and nature put into our hands ” ! I know not what ideas 
that lord may entertain of God and nature ; but I know that such 
abominable principles are equally abhorrent to religion and humanity ! 
What! to attribute the sacred sanction of God and nature to the mas¬ 
sacre of the Indian scalping-knife ! to the cannibal savage, torturing, 
murdering, roasting, and eating — literally, my lords, eating — the 
mangled remains of his barbarous battles ! .... To turn forth into 
our settlements, among our ancient connections, friends, and relations, 
the merciless cannibal, thirsting for the blood of man, woman, and 
child! to send forth the infidel savage ! against whom ? against your 
Protestant brethren ! to lay waste their country, to desolate their dwell¬ 
ings, and extirpate-their race and name with these horrible hell-hounds 
of savage war ! — Chatham. 

Of the emotions that especially require pure vocality, we 
•may mention joy, delight, admiration, tranquillity, love, ten¬ 
derness, sorrow when not excessive, pity, solemnity, rever¬ 
ence, and gentle command. Among those that usually require 
impure quality, are impatience, contempt, scorn, malice, scold¬ 
ing, rage, defiance, anger, terror, horror, remorse, surprise, won¬ 
der, secrecy, obstinacy, revenge, and great fear. 

We have thus evolved the seven leading elements of vocal 
expression, — Force, Yolume, Movement, Pitch, Slides, Stress, 
and Quality. We have seen that they are founded largely on 
imitation and analogy, and that they have a natural fitness 
to express corresponding facts. 


* Language, as might have been inferred from what we have said, is largely 
onomatopoetic or imitative. This is abimdantly evident from an inspection 






34 


THE SIXTH READER. 


The poets are much given to imitation of sounds. As one 
among innumerable instances, take this from Taylor’s trans¬ 
lation of Burger’s Lenore : — 

He cracked his whip ! the locks, the holts 
Cling-claiig asunder flew ! 

Take the following description by Tennyson of Sir Bedi- 
vere’s hurling the magic sword Excalibur. hlote the striking 
analogy of whirling, flashing, and rushing, which the broken 
measure of the poetry suggests : — 

. . . . Clutched the sword, 

And strongly wheeled and threw it. The great brand 
Made lightnings in the splendor of the moon, 

And flashing round and round, and whirled in an arch. 

Shot like a streamer of the northern morn ! 

Orators, too, select with care words whose sound harmonizes 
with their mental moods. “ Some words,” says an eloquent 
writer, “ sound out like drums; some breathe memories sweet 
as flutes; some call like a clarionet; some shout a charge like 
trumpets; some are sweet as children’s talk; others, rich as a 
mother’s answering back.” 

See how Everett suggests, by the sound of his well-chosen 
words, the midnight silence broken by a rushing train of cars ; — 

All was wrapped in darkness and hushed in silence, broken only by 
what seemed, at that hour, the unearthly clank and rush of the train. 

Webster suggests the din of civil war by the jarring words, — 

States dissevered, discordant, belligerent; a land rent with civil feuds, 
and drenched, it may be, with fraternal blood. 

But whether words be chosen with reference to fitness of 
sound or not, it is a part of the business of every speaker to 

of the following, out of hundreds of similar words: babble, bang, bellow, 
bow-wow, bubble, buzz, click, cluck, coo, cuckoo, crack, crash, croak, 
crunch, ding-dong, drum, gong, gurgle, grunt, grumble, gobble, growl, hoot, 
hiss, howl, hum, hurly-burly, jingle, mew, murmur, quack, rattle, roar, rub- 
a-dub, rumble, sob, slam, tinkle, tick, twitter, thud, wheeze, whine, whiz, 
whistle, whispei-. See Introduction to Wedgwood’s Dictionary of English 
Etymology. 



• INTRODUCTION, 


35 


give bj his tones as vivid an impression as possible, and to 
infuse into every sentence the appropriate force, volume, move¬ 
ment, pitch, slides, stress, and quality. 

We have thus far dealt, for the most part, with outward 
correspondences.'^ A more difficult matter now presents 
itself. How shall the orator represent the inner workings 
of the soull What elements of vocal expression shall body 
forth the emotions 1 There is undoubtedly a best expression 
of every mental act and state. How to find it, is the in¬ 
quiry. 

Here is a comparatively unexplored field. We may indicate 
one method of investigation; but the limits of the present 
treatise require that we confine ourselves mostly to results that 
lie upon the surface. 

Take the sentiment of awe. Elocutionists, without giving 
any reason, tell us that it requires low pitch, large volume, 
slow movement, slight force, median stress, falling slides, 
hoarse quality. What is the philosophical explanation? 

Awe is perhaps oftenest awakened by the great forces of 
nature, — the roar of lions, the noise of the torrent, the ava¬ 
lanche, the wind, the thunder, the earthquake. These utter 
themselves in a deep, grave, bass sound. Hence, from time 
immemorial,‘a low pitch has been deemed appropriate to what 
is vast, solemn, or awful. Their voices, like themselves, are 
vast. Hence, the awful is expressed by large volume. These 
sounds swell and sink. Hence, by a kind of imitation, they 
ffive rise to a slight median stress. These sounds are slow: 
and, besides, they repress our activity. Hence our voices 
move with corresponding slowness. They overpower us, teach 
us our nothingness. Hence we speak of them with bated 


* See, however, the remarks on initial stress as appropriate for anger, and 
on median stress as expressive of gentle emotion, and final stress as fit to 
give the sense of impatience (pages 29, 30). See also the remarks (on page 
27) on the circumflex slide as suggestive of crooked thought and insincere 
dealing. 




36 


THE SIXTH READER. 


breath, and, at most, with only moderate force. They enforce 
silent acquiescence, 

“While thinking man 

Shrinks hack into himself, — himself so mean 
’Mid things so vast.” 

Hence short and falling slides, to express awe. They have 
hoarse tones; and so our voices, when not hushed to a whis¬ 
per, are apt to express awe by deep, almost hoarse, utterance. 
Awe, then, commonly has low pitch, large volume, median 
stress, slow movement, slight or moderate force, falling slides, 
and impure (hoarse) quality. 

If such be the facts in regard to awe, evidently, by a natu¬ 
ral antithesis, mirthfulness would be expressed, to some extent 
at least, by opposite elements; as high pitch, small volume, 
initial stress, quick movement, rising slides, pure quality. 
But, as mirth is often imitative, these elements would be more 
or less varied according to circumstances. 

By similar methods of investigation, doubtless much of the 
philosophy of the vocal expression of emotions might be re¬ 
vealed ; but our limited space compels us to present only the 
results of observation and research. Latitude must be allowed 
for a diversity of tastes in regard to some of the details. IS^ot 
even the best elocutionists will agree on all points. 


SUGGESTIONS IN EEGAED TO VOCAL EXPEESSION. 

Tranquillity is usually of moderate force, or a little less; 
rather slow movement; middle pitch, tending to low; pure 
quality; moderate or slight volume ; gentle and median stress; 
moderate or short slides, mostly falling. Thus : — 

At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, 

And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove ; 

When naught but the torrent is heard on the hill. 

And naught but the nightingale’s song in the grove, — 

It was thus, by the cave of the mountain afar. 

While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began ; 


INTRODUCTION. 


37 


No more with himself or with nature at war, 

He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man. 

Beattie. 


Cheerfulness is usually of moderate force, or a little greater; 
quick movement j middle pitch, or a little higher; pure qual¬ 
ity ; moderate or slight volume; initial stress, sometimes me¬ 
dian j moderate or longer slides. Thus : — ^ 


0, young Lochinvar is come out of the west! 
Through all the wide border his steed was the best; 
And save his good broadsword he weapon had none ; 
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. 

So merry in love and so dauntless in war. 

There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. 


He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone : 

He swam the Esk River, where ford there w'as none : 

But ere he alighted at Netherby gate. 

The bride had consented, the gallant came late ; 

For a laggard in love and a dastard in war 
"VVas to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 

Scott. 

Mirth, if the degree of fun he considerable, and the person 
he demonstrative, is usually rather loud, quick, high, pure, 
except in imitation of the opposite qualities; of moderate or 
small volume; initial stress; extensive, often circumflex, slides. 
Thus, in Holmes’s Treadmill Song : — 

The stars are rolling in the sky. 

The earth rolls on below ; 

And we can feel the rattling wheel 
Revolving as we go. 

Then tread away, my gallant hoys. 

And make the axle fly ; 

Why should not wheels go round about 
Like planets in the sky ? 


Wake up, wake up, my duck-legged man. 
And stir your solid pegs ! 

Arouse, arouse, my gawky friend, 

And shake your spider legs. 


38 


THE SIXTH READER. 


What though you ’re awkward at the trade ? 

There’s time enough to learn, — 

So lean upon the rail, my lad, 

And take another turn. 

They’ve built us up a noble wall. 

To keep the vulgar out; 

We’ve nothing in the world to do 
But just to walk about ! 

So faster now, you middle men. 

And try to beat the ends, — 

It’s pleasant work to ramble round 
Among one’s honest friends ! 

Holmes. 

Mirth, however, may he imitative^ and a tone of mock 
seriousness may be adopted. The degree to which imitation 
should be carried, and the vocal expression varied to hit that 
which is burlesqued, parodied, or laughed at, will differ with 
different readers. Usually, attempts to personate are only 
partially successful. 

Humor is more quiet than mirth, and is more under control. 
It commonly has moderate force, moderate or quick movement, 
moderate or high pitch, pure quality, slight volume; initial, 
but not explosive, stress; moderate slides. Thus : — 

Now, while our soldiers are fighting our battles. 

Each at his post to do all that he can, 

Down among rebels and contraband chattels. 

What are ypu doing, my sweet little man ? 

All the brave boys under canvas are sleeping. 

All of them pressing to march with the van. 

Far from the home where their sweethearts are weeping ; — 
What are you waiting for, sweet little man ? 

You with the terrible warlike mustaehes ! 

_ • 

Fit for a colonel or ehief of a clan, — 

You with the waist made for sword-belts and sashes, — 

Where are your shoulder-straps, sweet little man % 

Bring him the buttonless garment of woman ! 

Cover his face, lest it freckle and tan ; 


‘ INTRODUCTION. 


39 


Muster the “ Apron-string Guards ” on the Conunoii: 

That is the corps for the sweet little man ! 

Give him for escort a file of young misses, 

Each of them armed with a deadly rattan ! 

They shall defend him from laughter and hisses 
Aimed by low boys at the sweet little man ! 

^ Holmes. 

Joy is usually loud, brisk, high, pure, of full volume, me¬ 
dian stress, long slides. Thus : — 

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are ! 

And glory to our sovereign liege. King Henry of Navarre ! 

Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance 

Through thy cornfields green and sunny vales, 0 pleasant land of France ! 

And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters. 

Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. 

As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy ; 

For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! a single field hath turned the chance of war ! 

Hurrah, hurrah for Ivry and King Henry of Navarre ! 

Macaulay. 

Admiration, which always contains something of joy, is 
rather loud, rather high; of moderate movement, sometimes 
quick; pure quality; median stress; moderate volume, some¬ 
times large, especially when the object is large; long slides. 
Thus:— 

Sometimes a distant sail gliding along the edge of the ocean would 
be another theme of idle speculation. How interesting this fragment 
of a world hastening to rejoin the great mass of existence ! What a 
glorious monument of human invention has thus triumphed over wind 
and wave ; has brought the ends of the earth in communion ; has estab¬ 
lished an interchange of blessings, pouring into the sterile regions of 
the north all the luxuries of the south ; diffused the light of knowledge 
and the charities of cultivated life ; and has thus bound together those 
scattered portions of the human race between which Nature seemed to 
have thrown an insurmountable barrier ! — Irving. 

Delight is between joy and cheerfulness. Its manifestation 
differs a little from that of cheerfulness. The movement is 
rather fast; the force is considerable ; the slides are moderate; 


40 


THE SIXTH READER. 


the stress is strongly median ; the volume is moderate or large; 
the quality is very pure. Thus : — 

Hear the mellow wedding hells, golden hells : 

What a world of happiness their harmony foretells ! 

Through the hahny air of night 
How they ring out their delight! 

From the molten golden notes, 

And all in tune, 

What a liquid ditty floats 
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats 
On the moon ! 

0, from out the sounding cells, 

What a gush of euphpny voluminously wells ! 

How it swells ! How it dwells 
On the future ! How it tells 
Of the rapture that impels 

To the swinging and the ringing of the bells, bells, bells, — 

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, — 

To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells. 

Poe. 

Love, undisturbed, is usually of slight or moderate force; 
moderate movement, sometimes inclining to quick; moderate 
or high pitch ; very pure quality; moderate or slight volume; 
soft median stress; moderate slides, often rising. Thus : — 

Not as all other women are. 

Is she that to my soul is dear : 

Her glorious fancies come from far 
Beneath the silver evening-star ; 

And yet her heart is ever near. 

Great feelings hath she of her own. 

Which lesser souls may never know : 

God giveth them to her alone, 

And sweet they are as any tone 
Wherewith the wind may choose to blow. 

She hath no scorn of common things ; 

And though she seem of other birth. 

Round us her heart entwines and clings. 

And patiently she folds her wings 
To tread the humble paths of earth. 


INTRODUCTION. 


41 


Blessing she is : God made her so ; 

And deeds of week-day holiness 
Fall from her noiseless as the snow ; 

Nor hath she ever chanced to know 
That aught were easier than to bless. 

Lowell. 

Tenderness is usually rather high, pure, of slight force, 
moderate or slow movement, slight volume, gentle median 
stress, sometimes tremulous; short or moderate slides, oftener 
rising than falling. Thus : — 

Adam. Dear master, I can go no further: 0, 1 die for food ! Here 
lie 1 down, and measure out my grave. Farewell, kind master. 

Orlando. Why, how now, Adam ! no greater heart in thee ? Live 
a little ; comfort a little ; cheer thyself a little. If this uncouth forest 
yield anything savage, I will either be food for it, or bring it food to 
thee. Thy conceit is nearer death than thy powers. For my sake be 
comfortable ; hold death awhile at the arm’s end. I will here be with 

thee- presently.Yet thou liest in the bleak air : come, 1 will bear 

thee to some shelter; and thou shalt not die for lack of a dinner, if 
there live anything in this desert. Cheerly, good Adam. — Shake¬ 
speare. 

If the tenderness is playful, the slides may be long and 
circumflex. 

Sorrow is of various kinds. When allied to tenderness and 
pity, it has usually slight force, slow movement, high pitch ; 
pure quality, sometimes aspirated ; shght volume ; median stress, 
sometimes intermittent; moderate or long slides, often rising. 
Thus : — 

Gone, gone from us ! and shall we see 
Those sibyl-leaves of destiny. 

Those calm eyes, nevermore ? 

Those deep dark eyes, so warm and bright, 

Wherein the fortunes of the man 
Lay slumbering in prophetic light. 

In characters a child might scan ? 

So bright, and gone forth utterly ! 

0 stern word — Nevermore ! 

Lowell. 

Pity is usually of slight force, rather slow movement, very 



42 


THE SIXTH READER. 


high pitch, pure quality, small volume; median, or sliglit 
radical, stress; moderate slides, often rising. Thus : — 

Do you hear the children weeping, 0 my brothers ! 

Ere the sorrow comes with years ? 

They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, 

And that cannot stop their tears. 

The young lambs are bleating in the meadows, 

The young birds are chirping in the nest, 

The young fawns are playing with the shadows. 

The young flowers are blowing towards the west; 

But the young, young children, 0 my brothers, — 

They are weeping bitterly ! 

They are weeping in the playtime of the others, 

In the country of the free ! 

Mrs. Browning. 

Distress is of several kinds and degrees. It is usually 
loud, by paroxysms; Tery liigli, quick, with occasional long 
sounds of grief; aspirated; of moderate volume; vanishing 
stress, rarely median ; long slides, mostly rising. Thus : — 

That I did love thee, Csesar, 0, ’t is true ! 

If, then, thy spirit look upon us now. 

Shall it not grieve thee, dearer than thy death, 

To see thy Antony making his ])eace. 

Shaking the bloody fingers of thy foes, 

Most noble ! in the presence of thy corse ? 

Had I as many eyes as thou hast wounds. 

Weeping as fast as they stream forth thy blood. 

It would become me better than to close 
On terms of friendship with thine enemies. 

Shakespeare. 

Impatience is usually loud, quick, high; harsh, impure; 
of moderate or small volume; strong vanishing stress; long, 
usually falling slides. Thus : — - 

Lear. You heavens, give me patience, — patience I need. 

You see me here, you gods, a poor old man. 

As full of grief as age ; wretched in both. 

If it be you that stir these daughters’ hearts 

* As if, tlie longer the mind dwelt on the thought, the more intense the 
feeling became. 



‘ INTRODUCTION. 


43 


Against their father, fool me not so much 

To bear it tamely : touch me with noble anger. 

0, let not women’s weapons, water-drops. 

Stain my man’s cheeks ! — No, you unnatural hags, 

I will have such revenges on you both 

That all the world shall — I will do such things — 

< ^ 

What they are yet, I know not; but they shall be 
The terrors of the earth. You think I ’ll weep : 

No, I ’Jll not weep ! — 

I have full cause of weeping ; but this heart 
. • ' Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws 

Or e’er I ’ll weep ! — 0 fool, I shall go mad ! 

Shakespeare. 

Vexation has very nearly the same vocal expression as 
impatience. Thus : —■ 

0, what a rogue and peasant slave am 1 ! 

Is it not monstrous, that this player here. 

But in a fiction, in a dream of passion. 

Could force his soul so to his own conceit 
That, from her working, all his visage wanned. 

Tears in his eyes, distraction in his aspect, 

A broken voice, and his whole function suiting 
With forms to his conceit ? and all for nothing ! 

• • • • • 

Yet I, a dull and muddy-mettled rascal .... 

Can say nothing ! 

• ' Shakespeare. 


Contempt is usually of slight force, quick or moderate move¬ 
ment, moderate pitch, expulsive initial stress, aspirated whis¬ 
pering quality, small volume; moderate, sometimes long slides. 
Thus : — 


Has the gentleman done ? Has he completely done ? He was un¬ 
parliamentary from the beginning to the end of his speech. There was 
scarce a word he uttered that was not a violation of the privileges of this 
house./ But I did not call him to order. Why? Because the limited 
talents of some men render it impossible for them to be severe without 
being unparliamentary. But before I sit down, I shall show him how to 
be severe and parliamentary at the same time. On any other occasion I 
should think myself justifiable in treating with silent contempt anything 
which might fall from that honorable member. — Grattan. 


44 


THE SIXTH READER. 


Scorn is similar to contempt, but louder, of larger volume, 
and longer slides, usually falling. Thus : — 

May their fate be a mock-word ! may men of all lands 
Laugh out with a scorn that shall ring to the poles ! 

When each sword that the cowards let fall from their hands 
Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls. 

Moore. 

Malice, which is a settled state of the mind, is usually of 
moderate force, moderate or slow movement, low pitch, initial 
stress, strongly aspirated or guttural quahty, small volume, 
short slides. Thus : — 

Aside the devil turned 
. . . . and to himself thus plained: 

“Sight hateful ! sight tormenting ! Thus these two, 
Imparadised in one another’s arms, 

The happier Eden, shall enjoy their fill 
Of bliss on bliss ; while I to hell am thrust! ” 

Milton. 

Scolding is similar to Impatience. It is usually loud, 
quick, high, hut may snarl in a moderate or low pitch; of 
impure quality, small volume, marked initial stress; short 
slides, often circumflex. Thus : — 

Capulet. How now ! how now, chop-logic ! What is this ? 

“ Proud ” — and, “ I thank you ” — and, “ I thank you not ” ; 

And yet “not proud” ! Mistress minion, you. 

Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds ; 

But fettle your fine joints ’gainst Thursday next 
To go with Paris to St. Peter’s church ; 

Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither ! 

You tallow-face ! 

Lady Capulet. Fie ! fie ! what, are you mad ? 

Jttliet. Good father, I beseech you on my knees. 

Hear me with patience but to speak a word. 

Capulet. Hang thee, young baggage ! disobedient wretch ! 

I tell thee what, — get thee to church o’ Thursday, 

Or never after look me in the face ! 

Speak not; reply not; do not answer me ! 

My fingers itch ! 


Shakespeare. 


INTRODUCTION. 


45 


Anger, when it has not settled into cool malice, is usually 
loud, quick, of moderate or high pitch; very impure, the 
words being hissed or growled ; of small volume, the teeth be¬ 
ing set; abrupt, explosive, initial stress, sometimes vanishing; 
long slides, often falling, but sometimes circumflex. Thus : — 

Then in the last gasp of thine agony, 

Amid thy many murders, think of mine ! 

Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes ! 

Gehenna of the waters ! Thou sea Sodom ! 

Thus I devote thee to the infernal gods ! 

Thee and thy serpent seed ! 

Byron. 

Kage and Fury are usually very loud, very quick, very 
high, very impure, of very large volume, very abrupt initial 
stress, and long slides, often falling. Thus : — 

And darest thou, then, 

To beard the lion in his den, 

Tlie Douglas in his hall! 

And hopest thou hence unscathed to go ? 

No ! by St. Bride of Both well ! No ! 

Up drawbridge, grooms ! What, warder, ho ! 

Let tile portcullis fall ! 

' Scott. 

Defiance is usually quick, high, very loud, of very large 
volume, very impure quality, abrupt initial stress, and long 
slides. Thus: — 

Here I stand ready for impeachment or trial. I dare accusation. I 
defy the honorable gentleman ; I defy the government; I defy their 
whole phalanx. Let them come forth ! I tell the ministers, I will 
neither give quarter nor take it ! — Grattan. 

Command is usually loud, of moderate or quick movement, 
moderate or high pitch, large volume; pure quality, unless 
angry; marked initial stress ; long falling slides. Thus : — 

Uzziel 1 Half these draw off, and coast the south 
With strictest watch. These other, wheel the north. 

Milton. 


46 


THE SIXTH READER. 


Boldness is usually loud, quick, of modetate 6. high pitch, 
large volume, moderately pure quality, moderate falling slides, 
initial stress. Thus ; — 

Then out spake brave Horatius, 

The captain of the gate : 

“ To every man upon this earth 
Death cometh, soon or late : 

And how can man die better ' 

- • Than facing fearful odds 

For the ashes of his fathers ^ 

And the temples of his gods ? 

, “ Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, 

. . , With all the speed ye may ; ? 

I, with two more to help me, - 

Will hold the foe in play. 

In yon straight path a thousand ' ' “ 

May well be stopped by three ; 

" Now, who will stand on either hand. 

And keep the bridge with me ? ” 

Macaulay. 

r ' " 

Decision is usually rather loud, rather quick, of moderate 
pitch, moderate or pure quality, moderate volume; marked, 
hut not explosive, initial stress; moderate falling slides. 
Thus : — 

Woe unto them that rise up early in the morning that they may follow 
strong drink ; that continue until night, till wine inflame them ! And 
the harp and the viol, the tabret and pipe and wine are in their.feasts; 
but they regard not the work of the Lord, neither consider the operation 
of his hands. Therefore my people are gone into captivity, because they 
have no knowledge ; and their honorable men are famished, and their 
multitude dried up with thirst. Therefore hell hath enlarged herself, 
and opened her mouth without measure ; and their glory and their mul¬ 
titude and their pomp, and he that rejoiceth, shall descend into it; and 
the mean man shall be brought down, and the mighty man shall be 
humbled. — Isaiah. 

AVould you, then, learn to dissipate the band 
Of these huge threatening difficulties dire. 

That in the weak man’s way like lions stand. 

His soul appall, and damp his rising fire ? 


INTRODUCTION. 


47 


Resolve, resolve ! and to be men aspire ! 

Exert that noblest privilege alone 

Here to mankind indulged ; control desire ; 

Let godlike Reason from her sovereign throne 
Speak the commanding word, “I will !” and it is done, 

Thomson. 

Business, or Matter of Fact, is usually moderate in force, 
movement, and pitch ; of medium quality; small volume ; ini¬ 
tial, but not marked stress ; short, variable slides. Thus : — 

This is Detroit, the commercial metropolis of Michigan. It is a pros¬ 
perous and beautiful city, and worthy of your pride. I have enjoyed its 

hospitalities liberal and long. Seventy miles west of Detroit is 

Leoni, an obscure district containing two villages, Leoni and Michigan 
Centre. Here in this dock are the principal citizens of that community. 
Either they have committed a great crime against this State, or there is 
a conspiracy of infamous persons to effect their ruin through the ma¬ 
chinery of the law. — Seward. 

Secrecy is usually of slight or very slight force, quick move¬ 
ment, and is carried on in a whisper or undertone. 

In the following passage secrecy is blended with admiration, 
and controls the expression; which, however, is somewhat 
softened.- 

What is’t ? a spirit ? 

Lord, how it looks about! Believe me, sir, 

It carries a brave form : but ’tis a spirit! 

. . . . I might call him 

A thing divine ; for nothing natural 
I ever saw so noble. 

Shakespeare. 

In the following, secrecy is blended with malice, and pre¬ 
ponderates in ’the reading. The whispering voice, however, is 
greatly roughened by the hatred. 

King John. Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert! throw thine eye 

On yon young boy. I T1 tell thee what, my friend, 

He is a very serpent in my way ! 

And wheresoe’er this foot of mine doth tread. 

He lies before me. Dost thou understand me ? 

Thou art his keeper. 



48 


THE SIXTH EEADEE. 


Hubekt. And I will keep him so 

That he shall not-oftend your majesty. 

King John. Death ! 

Hubert. My lord ? 

King John. A grave. 

Hubert. He shall not live. 

Shakespeare. 

Fear is usually of soft force, except when frantic; of very 
quick movement; low pitch, except in great fright; strongly 
aspirated quality; small volume; tremulous, or spiasmodic, ini¬ 
tial stress ; short slides, mostly falling. Thus : — 

While thronged the citizens with terror dumb. 

Or whispering with white lips, “ The foe ! they come ! they come ! ” 

Byron. 

Terror affects different persons differently. "When extreme, 
it is usually very loud, shrieking; very quick; very high ; 
very impure, hut the high notes may he pure; of variable vol¬ 
ume, usually large ; spasmodic initial stress, may be thorough 
or tremulous; long slides. Thus : — 

Avaunt! and quit my sight! Let the earth hide thee ! 

Thy bones are marrowless ; thy blood is cold ; 

Thou hast no speculation in those eyes 

Which thou doth glare with ! 

Shakespeare. 

So the young prince Arthur, when he catches a glimpse of the 
ugly executioners who are to burn out his eyes, exclaims, — 

0, save me, Hubert, save me ! My eyes are out, 

Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men ! 

Awe has already been explained on pages 35 and 36. The 
following passage illustrates it: — 

It thunders ! Sons of dust, in reverence bow ! 

Ancient of Days, thou speakest from above ! 

Thy right hand wields the bolt of terror now. 

That hand which scatters peace and joy and love. 

Almighty ! trembling like a timid child, 

I hear thy awful voice ! Alarmed, afraid, 

I see the flashes of thy lightning wild. 

And in the very grave would hide my head ! 

Dmitriev. 


INTRODUCTION. 


49 


Solemnity is usually of slight or moderate force, slow move¬ 
ment, low pitch, median stress, pure quality, moderate or large 
volume, short slides, mostly falling. Thus : — 

By Nebo’s lonely mountain. 

On this side Jordan’s wave, 

In a vale in the land of Moab, 

There lies a lonely grave. 

But no man dug that sepulchre, 

And no man saw it e’er ; 

For the angels of God upturned the sod. 

And laid the dead man there ! 

Mrs, Cecil Frances Alexander. 

Seriousness is usually of moderate force, but sometimes 
loud, sometimes soft; rather slow movement; low pitch; 
slightly median stress, sometimes initial; pure quality; mod¬ 
erate volume ; moderate slides, mostly falling. Thus : — 

Fourscore and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth upon this 
continent a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposi¬ 
tion that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil 
war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedi¬ 
cated, can long endure. AVe are met on a great battle-field of that war. 
We are met to dedicate a portion of it as the final resting-place of those 

who have given their lives that that nation might live. — Lincoln. 

• 

Eeverence unites fear, respect, and esteem. It differs hut 
little from solemnity in its expression. The pitch may he a 
little higher, the volume a little larger, the movement faster, 
and the shdes oftener rising. Thus : — 

Venerable men ! You have come down to us from a former genera¬ 
tion. Heaven has bounteously lengthened out your lives that you might 
behold this joyous day, — Webster. 

Horror chills and paralyzes. It is usually of soft force, 
very low pitch, very slow movement, slight median stress, 
sometimes tremulous; impure, guttural quality; usually large 
volume ; short falling slides, or none. This combination of ele¬ 
ments tends to the monotone. Thus the ghost of the murdered 
king in “ Hamlet ” : — 


50 


THE SIXTH READER. 


Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother’s hand, 

Of life, of crown, of queen, at once despatched ; 

Cut off in the very blossoms of my sin, 

Unhouseled, disappointed, unaneled ; 

No reckoning made, but sent to my account 
With all my imjjerfections on my head ! 

0, horrible ! 0, horrible ! Most horrible ! 

Shakespeaee. 

Eemorse, when great, is usually of loud convulsive force, 
hut sometimes suppressed; quick movement, with irregular in- 
tervals; high pitch, sometimes moderate or low; impure qual¬ 
ity, guttural, with sobbing or sighing; small volume, some¬ 
times moderate ; final stress, with tremor; moderate slides, 
mostly falling. Thus : — 

Oh, my offence is rank ; it smells to heaven ! 

It hath the primal eldest curse upon it, 

A brother’s murder ! — Pray can 1 not. 

Though inclination be as sharp as will: 

My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent. 

0, wretched state ! 0 bosom, black as death ! 

0 limed soul, that, struggling to be free. 

Art more engaged ! Help, angels, make assay ! 

Shakespeare. 

0 

Despair is usually of slight force, slow movement, low 
pitch; moderately pure quality, slightly aspirated ; small vol¬ 
ume ; tremulous stress ; short slides, mostly falling. Thus : — 

Man. I am now a man of despair, and am shut up in it, as in this 
iron cage. I cannot get out ; 0, now I cannot. 

Christian. But how earnest thou into this condition ? 

Man. I left off to watch and be sober ; I laid the reins upon the 
neck of my lusts ; I sinned against the light of the Avord, and the good¬ 
ness of God ; I have grieved the Spirit, and he is gone ; I tempted the 
Devil, and he is come to me ; I have provoked God to anger, and he has 
left me ; I have so hardened my heart that I cannot repent. 

Then said Christian to the Interpreter, “ But are there no hopes for 
such a man as this?” “Ask him,” said the Interpreter. Then said 
Christian, “Is there no hope, but you must be kept in the iron cage of 
despair ? ” 


INTRODUCTION. 


51 


Max. No, none at all. 

Christiax. Why, the Son of the Blessed is very pitiful. 

Max. I have crucitied him to myself afresh; 1 have despised his 
person ; I have despised his righteousness ; I have counted his blood 
an unholy thing ; I have done despite to the spirit of grace ; there¬ 
fore I shut myself out of all the promises, and there now remains to me 
nothing but threatenings, dreadful threatenings, fearful threatenings, 
of certain judgment and fiery indignation which shall devour me as an 
adversary. 

Christiax. For what did you bring yourself into this condition ? 

Max. For the lusts, pleasures, and profits of this world, in the en- 
jo 3 nrient of which I did then promise myself much delight; but now 
every one of those things also bites me and gnaws me like a burning 
worm. 

Christiax. But canst thou not now repent and turn ? 

Max. God hath denied me repentance. His word gives me no en¬ 
couragement to believe ; yea, himself hath shut me up in this iron cage, 
nor can all the men in the world let me out ! 0 Eternity ! Eternity! 

How shall I grapple with the misery that I must meet with in eternity ? 

Then said the Interpreter to Christian, “ Let this man’s misery be re¬ 
membered by thee, and be an everlasting caution to thee.” 

Well,” said Christian, “ this is fearful ! God help me to watch and 
be sober, and to pray that I may shun the cause of this man’s misery.” 

Buxyax. 

Surprise is usually loud, high, quick and slow alternately, 
aspirated, of expulsive initial stress, small volume, long slides. 
Thus Horatio tells Hamlet of the apparition of the latter’s de¬ 
ceased father: — 

Hor. My lord, I think I saw him yesternight. 

Ham. Saw ! Who ? 

Hor. My lord, the king, your father. 

Ham. The king, my father ? 

• • • • * 

For God’s love, let me hear ! 

But where was this ? 

, • • • • 

Hor. My lord, upon the platform where we watched. 

Ham. Did you not speak to it ? 

Hor. My lord, I did. 


Ham. ’T is very strange. 


52 


THE SIXTH READER. 


Hor. As I do live, my honored lord, ’t is true ; 

And we did think it writ down in our duty 

To let you know of it. 

Ham. Indeed, indeed, sirs, but this troubles me. 

Hold you the watch to-night ? 

Hor. We do, my lord. 

Ham. Armed, say you ? 

Hor. Armed, my lord. Shakespeare. 

Wonder is usually of moderate force, sometimes loud ; 
moderate pitch; irregular movement, slow and sometimes 
quick; aspirated quality, sometimes nearly pure; expulsive 
initial stress; long slides; small volume, sometimes moderate 
or large, it being more or less proportioned to the supposed 
magnitude of the thing wondered at. Thus Alonzo, Gonzalo, 
Sebastian, Antonio, and others, hearing supernatural music and 
seeing unearthly shapes, express their amazement: — 

Alon. What harmony is this ? My good friends, hark ! 

Gon. Marvellous sweet music ! 

Alon. Give us kind keepers. Heavens ! What were these ? 

Sebas. a living drollery ! Now 1 will believe 
That there are unicorns ; that in Arabia 
There is one tree, the phoenix’ throne ; one phoenix 
At this hour reigning there. 

Ant. I T1 believe both ; 

And what does else want credit, come to me. 

And I ’ll be sworn’t is true. Shakespeare. 

The foregoing quotations afford tolerable illustrations of the 
different emotions considered separately. Oftener, however, the • 
feelings are more or less mingled. In such cases the result¬ 
ing vocal expression may partake of the leading character¬ 
istics of all. Usually one ingredient predominates, and this 
will give the chief tone or color to the* compound. (See on 
this subject Professor Mark Bailey’s remarks in his introduc¬ 
tory treatise in Hillard’s Sixth Reader, pages Ixxiv, Ixxv; 
also his admirable analysis on pages Ixxv-lxxixof the same.) 

Prom the foregoing we deduce the following directions for 
elocutionary analysis: — 



INTRODUCTION. 


53 


1. Ascertain the prevailing tone or spirit of the piece, and 
adhere to it, adapting the elements of vocal expression to it 
wherever you perceive no cause for deviation. 

2. Ascertain the deviations from the general character of the 
piece, and adapt the elements of vocal expression to the spirit 
of the individual sentences and words. Be careful, where 
mental states or acts are blended, to give each its due repre¬ 
sentation. 


We subjoin for illustration the following commencement of 
an examination of the stanzas preliminary to Milton’s “ Hymn 
oh the Morning of Christ’s Nativity,” as showing a method of 
elocutionary analysis. (See Masterpieces in English Litera¬ 
ture,” 1st volume, pp. 192, 193.) 

This is the month, and this the happy morn, 

Wherein the Son of Heaven’s Eternal King, 

Of wedded Maid and Virgin Mother born, 

Our great redemption from above did bring ; 

For so the holy sages once did sing. 

That he our deadly forfeit should release. 

And with his Father work us a perpetual peace. 

That glorious form, that light insufferable, 

And that far-beaming blaze of majesty. 

Wherewith he wont at Heaven’s high council-table 
To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, 

He laid aside ; and here, with us to be. 

Forsook the courts of everlasting day, 

And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay. 

Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein 
Afford a present to the Infant God ? — 

Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn sfe-ain, 

To welcome him to this his new abode. 

Now, while the heaven, by the sun’s team untrod. 

Hath took no print of the approaching light. 

And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright ? 



54 


THE SIXTH READER. 


See how, from far, upon the eastern road. 

The star-led wizards haste with odors sweet! 

0, run, prevent them with thy humble ode. 

And lay it lowly at his blessed feet ! 

Have thou the honor first thy Lord to greet. 

And join thy voice unto the angel choir 
From out his secret altar touched with hallowed fire ! 

The prevailing tone of this piece is serious. Hence it must, 
for the most part, be read with moderate force, somewhat 
slowly, in a rather low pitch, with slightly median stress, 
pure quality, moderate volume, and moderate slides. 

The first stanza, beginning, “This is the month,” has joy 
as well as seriousness. Joy predominates. Hence it should 
he read with rather loud force, rather brisk movement, rather 
high pitch, very pure quality, rather full volume, decided 
median stress, rather long slides. 

The next stanza, beginning, “ That glorious form,” has, in 
the first four lines, deep admiration blending equally reverence 
and love. Hence those lines should he read with moderate 
force, moderate pitch, rather slow movement, very pure quality, 
rather large volume, full me^an stress, moderate' slides. 

The next three lines, beginning, “ He laid aside,” have ten¬ 
derness combined with reverence; tenderness preponderating 
in the first two, and reverence in the last. Hence to be read 
with slight force, slow movement, moderate j)ifch, median 
stress, very pure quality, moderate volume, short slides. Head 
it aloud. Proceed in this manner with the analysis of every 
stanza. _ 

The voice is the most perfect expression of the soul. Sweet¬ 
ness, purit}’’, integrity, earnestness, delicacy, — these, in the 
lapse of time and with judicious training of the vocal organs, 
will come to charaoterize spontaneously the commonest utter¬ 
ance of their possessor, and impart a charm that mere art 
can never attain. There have been elocutionists that have 
labored in vain for scores of years to perfect tlieir voices. 



INTRODUCTION. 


55 


In their public efforts they may have been apparently suc¬ 
cessful ; yet in the unguarded moments of conversation, there 
has often been a marked and painful lack of these outward 
signs of inward beauty. So true is the maxim of the ancient 
rhetoricians, “ None but a good man can be a perfect orator.” 


GESTUEE IN ELOCUTION. 


Before proceeding to treat specifically of gesture, it seems 
appropriate to say a word of attitude and of facial expression. 

A stooping form, with round shoulders and sunken chest, 
conveys the impression of weakness, discouragement, coward¬ 
ice, or excessive humility. Such a posture may be appropriate 
enough in some circumstances; as in uttering the follow- 
ing : — 

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man, 

Whose trembling limbs have brought him to your door; 

Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span. 

0, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store. 


Fig. 1. 


Fig. 2. ' 




Weakness, etc. 


“You souls of geese,” etc. 












56 


THE SIXTH READER. 


Very different is the attitude of the bold combatant. Thus 
Merivale, the historian, represents Eome as “squaring with 
the world.” Catiline takes the posture of the pugilist, when 
he thus defies Cicero and the Eoinan Senate : — 

But here I stand and scoff you. Here I fling 
Hatred and full defiance in your face. Croly. 

Similar, but even more fierce and disdainful, is the bearing 
of Coriolanus towards his soldiers who have been cowardly in 
battle: — 

You shames of Eome ! .... You souls of geese, 

That bear the shapes of men, how have you run 
From slaves that apes would beat ? . . . . 

All hurt behind ! backs red, and faces pale 

With flight and agued fear ! Mend, and charge home ; 

Or, by the fires of heaven, I T1 leave the foe 

And make my wars on you ! Shakespeare. 

Two rules may be given in regard to attitude : First, let 
the outer express the inner. Second, let ungraceful postures 
be avoided. _ 

Of facial expression, we may remark as follows : — 

Attention slightly raises the eyebrows. 

Admiration raises the brows, opens the eyes, and brings a 
smile. 

Surprise raises the brows, and opens the eyes and mouth. 

Grief wrinkles the brows, draws up their inner ends, and 
draws down the corners of the mouth. 

Disdain partly closes the eyes, and slightly turns the head, 
as if the despised person were not worth looking at. It may 
also frown, if the feeling be strong, and may elevate the nose 
and upper lip. 

Anger closes the mouth firmly, holds the body erect, shuts 
the teeth, and clinches the fists. It strongly frowns, and may 
even show the teeth. 

Determination closes the mouth tightly. It may clinch the 
fists. Frowning is the natural expression of some difficulty 





INTRODUCTION. 


57 


encountered, or something disagreeable experienced, 'which ex¬ 
cites a feeling of hostility. 

One rule may suffice in facial expression: Let the face show 
the feeling that prevails at the instant; let it never show the 
opposite, except for comic effect. (See Darwin on the Ex¬ 
pression of the Emotions in Man and the Lower Animals.”) 


Gesture may be defined as a bodily movement to illustrate, 
express, or enforce some mental act or state. 

The question may be asked at the outset. Should the words 
be made to conform to the gesture, or the gesture to the words ^ 
Neither. Each should be exactly adapted to the thought. Then 
the two former will substantially harmonize. (As to the coin¬ 
cidence in time between gestures and words, see the following 
paragraph.) 

I. GESTURES OF PLACE. 

The first step towards any gesture must obviously be a con¬ 
ception in the mind. Instantly the imagination assigns a 
place to the thing conceived. Without perceptible interval, 
the eye glances thither, the face may turn in that direction, 
the whole body may share in the movement. The hand may 
be lifted and carried towards the locality, and perhaps the 
index finger may accurately point it out. Lastly, when fit 
words have been chosen, the voice names the object. So 
slight is the interval between any two successive steps of this 
process, that often all seem to be simultaneous. Thus Lord 
Chatham alludes to a painting, and locates it by a simulta¬ 
neous glance of his eye, sweep of the arm, and pointing of the 
finger : — 

From the tapestry that adorns these walls, the immortal ancestor of 
the noble lord frowns with indignation at this disgrace of his country ! 

It matters not whether the object be present or absent, visi¬ 
ble or invisible. A speaker of vivid imagination will give it 
a place, and treat it as if actually seen, or, at least, as if 
really occupying some determinate position. 



58 


THE SIXTH READER. 


The slightest gesture of place is a glance of the eye in the 
direction of the object as located by the speaker, ihe next 
in extent is a turning of the head. The next is a motion 
of the hand thitherward, the finger, perhaps, pointing. The 
whole body may turn. Both hands may sometimes be used. 

A smail object, occupying but a point in the speaker’s real 
or imagined field of vision, is singled out with the index 
finger ] a larger object, with the whole hand extended j a still 

- Fig. 3. Fig. 4. 



“That star.” “ That constellation.” 


larger, with a wave of the hand; an object covering most of 
the field of view, with a sweep of both hands. Thus ; — 

Do you see that star ? 

Do you see that constellation (the Great Bear) ? 

See yonder aurora borealis (covering perhaps a quarter of the northern 
sky). 

Behold this vast galaxy (stretching both ways from the zenith to the 
horizon). 

Tor further illustration, note that, if a large expanse of ocean 
be the object mentioned, a sweep of the hand and arm, or 
even a glance towards it, may be sufficient; but a single ship 












INTRODUCTION. 


59 


Ftg. 5. 


Fig. 6. 



in the midst of that broad field, or a distant lighthouse upon 
its verge, would generally require to be more accurately desig¬ 
nated by the index finger. 

An orator uses the words yonder heavens. It is sufficient, 
perhaps, merely to glance upward, or to wave the hand out¬ 
ward and up towards that part of the sky. But if the words 
be yonder star, his finger will point it out with some accuracy, 
as already shown. 

If the object he an extensive forest, in sight of the speaker 
and occupying a great portion of the landscape, a gesture of 
the whole hand and arm, moving so as to direct attention to 
it as a large object, will suffice. But if it be a single tree, the 
finger will naturally point it out. 

When Erskine, quoting from the supj)Osed speech of an 
Indian chief, exclaims, — 

Who is it that causes this river to rise in the high mountains, and 
to empty itself into the ocean ? 

on the words, ivho is it, the speaker looks around, as if to see 
wl^ere the person inquired for may be found. Both the eye 

























60 


THE SIXTH READER. 


and the hand indicate the respective locations of the river, the 
mountains, and the ocean. 

When Macbeth, in his soliloquy, says, — 

Is this a dagger which 1 see before me ? 

there is a most intense gaze, and the hand is likely to be 
unconsciously stretched towards the point which the dagger 
seems to occupy. 

The more vivid the imagination of the speaker, and the 
more absorbed he is in his subject, the more numerous and 
the more striking will such gestures naturally be. 

Our first class of gestures, then, are gestures of place. They 
answer the question, where'? They are simple and easily 
made, and they add life and picturesqueness to discourse. 
They are followed without effort, and they often assist won¬ 
derfully in the presentation of a subject. 

They are sometimes used unnecessarily; as where a speaker, 
addressing an audience of medical gentlemen, places his hand 
on his heart, as if they needed to be informed of the locality 
of that organ! 

Children and uncultivated people require more of these ges¬ 
tures than would a body like the Supreme Court, or the 
Senate of the United States. There is a great difference in 
the extent to which different speakers employ them. 

Something will depend upon temperanfent. A man of light, 
active, nervous organization will use far more gestures of this 
kind, and indeed of every kind, than one who is slow, heavy, 
phlegmatic. Clay would gesticulate more than Webster; a 
demonstrative Frenchman more than a reticent Englishman; 
a vivacious Italian more than a solid Dutchman. 

Some applications of these principles may especially be 
noted. If there be a change in the position of the object 
while the mind is fixed upon it; for instance, if it be a bird 
flying, or a train of cars swiftly moving, or other object con¬ 
ceived of as making an extensive change in place; the eye, the 


INTRODUCTION. 


61 


hand, the head, the upper part of the body, and perhaps the 
whole person will sympathetically tend to join in that move¬ 
ment. In the following from Bryant, the index fiiiger may 
move as if to keep pace with the water-fowl sailing along the 
sky : — 

Vainly the fowler’s eye 

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 

As, darkly painted on the crimson sky. 

Thy figure floats along ! 


FiCr. 7. , Fig. 8. * Fig. 9. 



“ Tliy figure fioats along.’’ “ In my place here,” etc. “ Or elsewhere.” 


Again, loresent is directly in front and near the speaker; 
absent is off at one side; past is behind; future is before. 
Thus Webster says, — 

AVhen I shall be found, in my place here in the Senate, or elsewhere, 
to sneer at public merit, etc. 

Burke, at the close of his final speech against Hastings, 
might have so located the past and future : — 

My lords, at this awful close, in tlie name of the Commons of Great 
Britain and surrounded by them, I attest the retiring, 1 attest the 
advancing generations, etc. 
























62 


THE SIXTH READER. 


Furthermore, it is important to observe that all spiritual 
conceptions are based upon material facts. Things in the 
world of mind, moral qualities, ideas, cannot be expressed, 
perhaps cannot be conceived, except by the aid of types, 
figures, symbols, analogies supplied by the world of matter. 
Something of the original meaning clings to the word in its 
derived sense. Thus spirit means breath, and we rarely lose 
altogether the notion of breath, air, wind, when we use the 
word j sublimity means height; heaven is heaved ilieav-en) 
high; climax i^ ladder; towering is projecting aloft like a 
tower; base is low ; disgust is olfence to taste ; empyrean is the 
supposed fiery boundary of the universe ; transcendent is climb¬ 
ing higher; lofty is from the Anglo-Saxon lyft, the air, and 
means up in the air; humility is from humus, the ground; 
supernal is from super, above; infernal is from infer, infra, 
below. We always think of the angels as above, of the devils 
as below; as Poe sings, — 

Neither the angels in heaven above, * 

Nor the demons down under the sea, 

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 

Hence it comes that moral qualities are assigned “a local 
habitation,” All that is lofty, sublime, hopeful, high, exalted, 
noble, angelic, glorious, beautiful, august, eminent, celestial, 
superior, supernal, splendid, royal, soaring, radiant, elevated, 
cheering, inspiring, adorable, — in a word, all noble ideas, 
sentiments, and emotions, lift the soul, the eye, the hand; and 
they call for high gestures. 

On the other hand, all that is low, base, earthly, mean, 
dirty, foul, brutal, beastly, contemptible, grovelling, despica¬ 
ble, infamous, infernal, devilish, crawling, snaky, sneaking, 
filthy, shameful, abject, pitiful, disgusting, vile, beggarly, in¬ 
significant, — in a word, all ignoble ideas, sentiments, and 
emotions, lower the soul, the eye, the hand; and they call for 
low gestures. 


INTRODUCTION. 


63 


It will be a fair corollary, that all intermediate qualities, 
such as are suggested by the words passable, common, me¬ 
dium, moderate, average, ordinary, middling, usual, — and, in 
general, all qualities and allusions which do not clearly require 
high or low gestures, should, if expressed at all by gestures, 
be expressed by those near a medium elevation. This class 
comprises perhaps the majority of intellectual conceptions. 

Unless, therefore, the speaker is forcibly impressed by the 
significance of a word, as denoting elevation of thought and 
sentiment or the opposite, and so demanding an elevated 
gesture or the opposite, he will do well to avoid extremes. 

The following combines both the high and the low : —- 

If parts allure thee, think how Bacon shined, — 

The wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind. PoPE. 


Fig. 10. Fig. 11. 



“Wisest, brightest.” ^ “Meanest of mankind.” 


On wisest and brightest, of course, the looks and the action 
are elevated; on meanest they are much depressed. 

According to the foregoing principles, superlative excellence 
would be expressed by a gesture reaching far towards the zenith ; 
and extraordinary demerit, by a gesture that should carry the 
mind to the dust at one’s feet. 














64 


THE SIXTH READER. 


The foUowing extract from Young’s “ Night Thoughts ” will 
serve to illustrate further these points : — 

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, 

The word poor, meaning humble, weak, naturally suggests 
a gesture below the horizontal plane. The word rich requires 
a gesture a little higher. The word abject may have a low 
gesture, as if calling attention to the very ground. On .the 
word august the look is elevated, and the hand may be raised 
to a position of about forty-five degrees above the horizontal. 
No gestures should be used here, unless the utterance is very 
slow. The elevation and depression of the eye and of the face 
may suffice. 

How complicate, how wonderful, is man ! 

How passing wonder He who made him such ! 

Who centred in our make such strange extremes. 

From different natures marvellously mixed. 

Connection exquisite of distant worlds. 

Distinguished link in being’s endless chain, 

Midway from nothing to the Deity. 

At nothing the eye, hand, and face are downcast. At He 
and at Deity they are uplifted. 

A beam ethereal, sullied, and absorpt; 

Though sullied and dishonored, still divine ; 

Dim miniature of greatness absolute ; 

An heir of glory, a frail child of dust! 

An heir of glory requires the elevation of the eye and the 
hand. (Fig- 12). A frail child of dust requires that the look 
and gesture be depressed. (Fig. 13.) 

Helpless immortal! insect infinite ! 

On the word helpless tlie gesture again is one of weakness 
and humility, — a low gesture. On the word immortal, even 
if the hand remain low, the eye and the face should be raised. 
The utterance must all the while be very slow. 


INTRODUCTION .. 


65 


Fig. 12. 



“ Heir of glory.” (p. 64.) 


Fig. 13. 



“ Frail child of dust.” (p. 64.) 


Abstract qualities, when successively enumerated, may be 
imagined to occupy different locations, and may be alluded to 
’ by corresponding gestures of place, thus : — 

What woidd content you? Talent? No. Enterprise? No. Repu¬ 
tation? No. Courage? No. Virtue? No. Patriotism? No. Holi- 


Fig. 14. 


“Talent? 


No. 


Fig. 15. 



” Enterprise ? No.” 


Fig. 16. 


“Reputation? No.” 





































G6 


THE SIXTH READER. 


ness? No. The man whom you would select, must possess not one, 
but all of these. 

On the word talent the gesture might be directly to the 
front, as if talent were located between the speaker and the 
audience in front of him. On the word enterprise the hand 

I 

may gesticulate a little to the right of where the gesture was 
made on talent, as if enterprise lay beside talent and not far 


Fig. 17. Fig. IS. Fig. 19. 



“Courage? No.” “Virtue? No.” “Patriotism? No.” 


distant from it. On the word reputation the hand may be 
carried still farther in the oblique direction, as if reputation 
were in the third place. On the word courage a similar ges¬ 
ture to the right of the gesture on reputation would mark 
out its locality as the fourth in the series. On the word virtue 
another gesture still farther to the right, making it the fifth 
place in the series. So with patriotism and holiness succes¬ 
sively. (Fig. 20.) On the word one the gesture may be 
directly to the front, and with the index finger. On the 
word all a wave of the hand from the front around to the 
right, so as to include all the qualities that have been enum¬ 
erated in their respective locations. 






























i 


I 


INTRODUCTION. 67 


Fig. 20. 


Fig. 21. 




“Holiness? No.” (pp. 6.5, 66.) A Climax. 

Perhaps, however, it would be better to locate the different 
^ qualities one above the other, marking talent by the hand at 
the height of the elbow or a little lower, and letting the hand 
rise successi^’'ely on the other qualities, thus making a climax, 
holiness carrying the hand high toward the zenitli. The posi¬ 
tions of the hand in the consecutive gestures need not he in a 
vertical plane; they may better rise ohliquely to the right. 

It is well for one who has a set speech to deliver, to note 
carefully beforehand the words or passages where gestures of 
place are required ; and to conceive, with as much distinctness 
as possible, of the appropriate situations which he may, for 
the purposes of his speech, conceive to be occupied by the things 
alluded to or described; just as a painter, in drawing a land¬ 
scape, will select at the outset the points to which he wishes 
to give prominence, or which form the basis of his measure¬ 
ments, and will mark tlieir relative positions on the canvas. 
Thus the prominent points of the picture which the orator has 
in his mind’s eye will at once be reproduced by the audience. 

The following piece illustrates principally gestures of place. 
Circumstances may modify their number, form, and extent. 







I 


G8 THE SIXTH READER. 

Now rest for the wretched : the long day is past, 

In this line there is no definite conception of any particular 
location, and no gesture of that kind is needed. The eye is 
“ bent on vacancy,” as in calm meditation. (See Conventional 
Gestures, p. 100.) 

And night on yon prison descendeth at last. 

The speaker should have determined beforehand, for the 
purposes of the speech, the imaginary direction and distance 
of this prison from himself and from the audience; and his 
face should be turned towards it, his eye should seem to see 
it, his arm may be extended, and his hand, if not his finger, 
point towards it. 


Fig. 22. .. Fig. 23. 



Calm meditation. “ Yon prison,” etc. 


A speaker of great vividness of fancy might conceive of 
night as an atmosphere of darkness coming down. Perhaps 
he would, not inappropriately, follow that descending move¬ 
ment by lowering his face (which might have been elevated 
to an angle of about 45°) and his hand, bringing the hand, 
at the conclusion of the gesture, into the position in which 
it would seem to rest upon the imagined prison. 

























INTRODUCTION. 


69 


Fig. 24. Fig. 25. 



“ Look there ! ” 



Now lock up and bolt. Ha, jailer ! look there ! 

A fugitive slave is here supposed to be discovered at a little 
distance from the jail, in the act of running away from con¬ 
finement. The speaker should have predetermined the direc¬ 
tion of this flight, and should have so arranged in his mind 
the points of the compass as to give ample and convenient 
space for the actions which are to follow. The jailer is con¬ 
ceived of as being at the prison, and his situation attracts for 
an instant the mind, the eye, and the hand, at the moment 
of the call to him; but these are immediately fixed again upon 
the fugitive. 

Who flies like a wild bird escaped from the snare ? 

This line requires the gesture imitating and following, the 
motion, as indicated in Fig. 7. The eye, the arm, the hand, 
and the finger slowly move, the finger moving in a curve, to 
keep pace with the runaway, both eye and hand being intently 
directed to her. The motion may he conceived as coming 


t 





























70 


THE SIXTH BEADER 


from the speaker’s right, and approaching a point at some dis¬ 
tance ill front. 


A woman ! a slave ! Up ! out in pursuit, 

Sudden surprise raises the hands and-opens them, as if to 
be in readiness to act. It also raises the brows, and opens 



Fig. 27. 



the eyes and mouth. A forcible wave of the hand on tlie 
word out may direct attention to the open field which the 
slave is traversing. This gesture combines place and emphasis. 


While linger some gleams of the day ; 


On the words linger some gleams a momentary glance at the 
western horizon or around the field might not be inappro¬ 
priate ; but it seems hardly necessary. 


Ho ! rally thy hunters with halloo and shout, 

To chase down the game, — and away ! 

A hurried sweep of the hand, so as to include in imagina¬ 
tion the points where the hunters are, the hand moving in its 










INTRODUCTION. 


71 


Fig. 28. Fig. 29. 



“Ho ! rally thy liuiiters.” (p. 70.) “And away!” (p. 70.) 


sweep around (or returning) so as to finally rest upon the place 
where the fugitive is supposed to be running, may be fitting, 
though not important. 

A bold race for freedom ! On, fugitive, on ! 

No gesture of the hand is needed in the first half of this 
line; but the eye should be very intently fixed on the moving 
object, and the face should be a little elevated for boldness. 

At the words On, fugitive, on! the hand may make an 
outward sweep from a position in front of the breast to the 
direction in which the speaker would urge the fugitive to flee. 

Heaven help but the right, and thy freedom is won. 

At the word heaven an instantaneous upward glance, the 
eye descending to the fugitive at the words is won. (Fig. 30.) 

How eager she drinks the free air of the plains ! 

Every limb, every nerve, every fibre, she strains. 

No gesture of location is necessary here, but the glance is 
riveted on her. 


















72 


THE SIXTH READER. 


From Columbia’s glorious Capitol 
Columbia’s daughter flees 

Here the hand should be extended at the word Capitol 

towards the point where the national Capitol is for the instant 

imagined to stand. Before the hand is dropped, the face, 

(laving been turned for a moment towards the Capitol, reverts 

to the fugitive. ^ 

To the sanctuary God hath given, 


The right hand having been used to locate the Capitol, the 
left hand will naturally be extended towards the sanctuary, or 
the right hand may be carried across the body towards it. 
(Fig. 32.) The face turns to the same point, and on the word 
God the eye glances instantaneously to heaven. 

The sheltering forest-trees. 

The hand may still remain pointing towards the refuge of 
forest-trees, while the speaker is pronouncing the last line; and 
after the glance towards the zenith on the word God, the face 
and eyes are turned in the same direction as the hand. 


Fig. 30. 


Fig. 31. 




“Heaven help,” etc. (p. 71.) 


“Columbia’s glorious Capitol.” 























INTRODUCTION. 


73 


Now she treads the long bridge, —joy lighteth her eye ! 

In the utterance of this line the gaze should be earnestly 
lixed upon the moving object, the finger pointing it out, the 
finger, the face, and the eyes turning very slowly to keep pace 
with its motion. 

Beyond her the dense wood and tlfp darkening sky : 

At the word beyond the look is directed to the forest; and 
instantly, after the utterance of the word wood, the face and 
eyes are slightly raised to behold the darkening sky. 


Fig. 32. 


Fig. 33. 


‘ To the sanctuary,” etc. (p. 72.) 

Wild hopes thrill her breast as 




“Treads the long bridge,” etc. 
she neareth the shore : 


As soon as the word sky is uttered, the glance reverts as 
quickly as possible to the fugitive. 

Oh, despair ! — there are men fast advancing before ! 

Just before the word oh, the eye and the face move a little 
to catch a glimpse of the men advancing in front of the fugi¬ 
tive. By an abrupt gesture the hand may point these men 
out. The attitude may indicate despair. (Hg. 34.) 















74 


THE SIXTH READER. 


Fig. 34. Fig. 35. 



“ Oh, despair ! ” (p. ^3.) “ Shame, shame ! ” 


Shame, shame on their manhood ! They hear, they heed 

The face is still riveted to the spot where the fugitive and 
the intercepting party are meeting. The hand, which lias 
remained extended, may be dropped as the word shame is 
first uttered. 

Tlie cry her flight to stay ; 

And, like demon forms, with their outstretched arms 

They wait to seize their prey ! * (Fig. 3fl.) 

She pauses, she turns, — ah ! will she flee hack ? 

The look is all the while fastened on the fusjitive and her 
pursuers; or it may rapidly glance around the vicinity, as if 
looking for sympathy and succor. 

Like wolves her pursuers howl loud on her track : — 

She lifteth to heaven one look of despair. 

Her anguish breaks forth in one hurried prayer ; — 

Hark, her jailer’s yell ! — like a bloodhound’s bay 

At tlie word harh, the eye glances at the jailer, who has 
now, it must be supposed, approached very near the fugitive. 





















INTRODUCTION. 


75 


Oil the low night wind it sweeps ! 

Now death, or the chain ! —to the stream she turns, 

And she leaps, 0 God, she leaps ! 

On the word chain a gesture of emphasis, a downward 
stroke. (See, on a subsequent page. Emphatic Gestures.) 

During the delivery of the last eight or ten lines there may 
be no gesture to indicate mere locality; but throughout the 
whole of them the attention is steadily fixed on the spot where 
the action is progressing. On the words she leaps there is 
first a sympathetic movement as if to leap, and immediately a 
recoiling with horror. (Fig. 38.) (See, on subsequent pages. 
Imitative Gestures.) On the word God there should be an in¬ 
stantaneous upward glance. 

The dark and the cold yet merciful wave 

If this scene is supposed to be somewhat near the speaker, 
he will naturally look down a little to the river below the 
bridge; but if it is conceived to be at some distance, say a 
quarter of a mile or more, there will be no perceptible change 
in the direction of his gaze. 


Fig. 36. 


U 


Outstretched arms. 


tf 


(13. 74.) 


Fig. 37. 



“ Liftetli to heaven," etc. (p. 74.^ 




















76 


TEE SIXTH READER. 


Receives to its bosom the form of the slave. 


No q:estiire of location needed here, 

O 


She rises, — earth’s scenes on her dim vision gleam ; 


In j)ronouncing the words earth's scenes, a hasty glance 
around the landscape in the vicinity of the catastrophe would 
be appropriate. 


Fig. 38. 


“ 0 God! she leaps ! ” (p. 75.) 


Fig. 39. 



“ She rises,” etc. 



But she struggleth not with the strong rushing stream ; 
And low are the death-cries her woman’s heart gives, 

As she floats adown the river : 

Faint and more faint grows her drowning voice. 

And her cries have ceased forever. 


On the words as she floats adown the river, the direction of 
the glance should change very slightly, so as to keep pace with 
the floating corpse. 

Now back, jailer, back to thy dungeons again, 

At the word now, the glance returns to the jailer, who is 
supposed to be still standing on the bridge, watching his vie- 



















INTRODUCTION. 


77 


Fio. 40. Fig. 41. 



“ Strong rushing stream.” (p. 76.) “Back, jailer, back ! ” (p. 76.) 

tim. At the utterance of the second hade, tlie face turns to 
the jail, and a quick gesture of the hand may point to it; and 
' the eye, having momentarily looked at the prison, instantly 
returns, and rests on the jailer. 

To swing the red lash, and rivet the chain : 

The form thon wouldst fetter — a valueless clod ! 

On swing, the gesture may imitate the stroke of one ply¬ 
ing the lash. (See Imitative Gestures, p. 80, etc.) 

At jj^ie word form or fetter, the hand begins to be moved, 
to make a gesture pointing out the floating corpse; and at the 
utterance of the word dod the hand or finger points, Avith 
a descending stroke, in the direction of the dead body in the 
river. The gesture may be made with the left hand. (Fig. 22.) 

The soul thou wouldst barter — returned to her God ! 

The eyes, in the utterance of the Avord soid, are fixed on 
the jailer, but Avithout delay they are raised to heaven; and 
at the utterance of the Avords loouldst barter — returned, the 
right hand is also raised, and the hand or finger points, as the 













78 


THE SIXTH READER. 


eyes look, to God. The left hand may still be held in the 
direction of the corpse in the river. (Fig. 42.) 

She lifts in his light her unmanacled hands ; 

Here, as in a number of'other places in this piece, there 
should be a striking imitative gesture. (See Imitative Ges¬ 
tures, p. 79, etc.) The hands should be lifted prone (i. e. 
palms down) in front of the body, till they are at the full length 
of the arms and at an angle of about 45° with the horizon, and 
then the hands should be lifted vertically to the front, turning 
on the wrists as pivots. The mention of the light of God, 
which is the glory of his throne, or the glory of heaven, nat¬ 
urally requires a glance upward. 

She flees through the darkness no more ; 

To freedom she leaped through drowning and death, 

If freedom be supposed to be in heaven, the look, which 
had been lowered, may again give an upward glance. On the 
words she leaped, the body may make a slightly imitative move¬ 
ment as of one beginning to leap. 

And her sorrow and bondage are o’er. 

Fig. 42. Fig. 43. 





















INTRODUCTION. 


79 


II. IMITATIVE GESTURES. 

The second kind of gestures are those which are imitative. 
They answer the question, Howl It will surprise one who 
has never given the subject consideration, to learn how numer¬ 
ous is this class. An orator who has much imagination con¬ 
ceives himself in the midst of the things he describes, and as 
actually performing the deeds of which he speaks. His 
action unconsciously imitates that which he imagines, as Gold¬ 
smith’s crippled soldier “ shouldered his crutch, and showed 
how fields were won.” 

' Tills principle lies at the bottom of all pantomime. Eos- 
cius, it is said, contended with Cicero to see which could 
express ideas the more forcibly ; he, by gestures ; Cicero, by 
words. Imitation must have been a principal means with the 
former. 

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, 

Each horseman drew his battle-blade. 

The imaginative speaker, if he be very much in earnest, in 
uttering this second line will be likely to go through the 
motion of drawing his sword from the scabbard. (Fig. 44.) 

Here I fling 

Hatred and full defiance in your face ! 

The action of hurling, or the feeling of defiance, requires a 
significant gesture. 

Measureless liar ! thou hast made my heart 
Too great for what contains it. — Boy ! 0 slave ! 

Boy ! False hound ! 

If you have writ your annals true, ’t is there, 

That, like an eagle in a dovecote, I 
Fluttered your Volscians in Corioli : 

Alone 1 did it. — Boy ! 

Shakespeare here represents lofty disdain wrestling with 
intense anger in the breast of Coriolanus. Before the Yol- 


80 


THE SIXTH READER. 


scian Senate, Aufidius, a leader of the Yolsci, has sneeringly 
called him a “boy of tears,” because Coriolanus has wept at his 
mother’s entreaties and has spared Eome. On the words I 
jiuttered your Volscians in Corioli, one or both hands, with arm 
extended, should violently shake and shiver, to imitate fright- 
eried doves. A defiant face and attitude are very important 
here. 

Take her up tenderly ; 

Lift her with care. 

The action of a person gently assisting to lift with both 
hands is here natural and almost unavoidable. 

Swift as an eagle cuts the air. 

The motion of the eagle cutting the air may be expressed 
by a quick high gesture of the hand moved edgewise. 

Approach thy grave 

Like one wdio wu’aps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 

The orator may go through the movement of \vrapping the 
drapery about him. 

Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostrils wdde. 

Ylioever enters into the spirit of this passage, in which 
Henry Y. stimulates his soldiers to make a desperate charge on 
the enemy, will find his teeth firmly set through sympathetic 
imitation. 

Quick as it fell from the broken staff, 

Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf: 

She leaned far out on the window-sill. 

And shook it forth with a royal will. 

The elocutionist, representing old Barbara flaunting the 
Union flag over the heads of the Bebel host, will find him¬ 
self tending to take the same attitude, and, in imagination, 
vigorously shaking the flag in his extended hand. 


INTRODUCTION. 


8i 


In passing from this general principle to some other appli¬ 
cations, we may remark : — 

Pirst. In speaking of anything utterly worthless, there 
is a natural tendency to throw it down and aside. 

Who steals my purse, steals trash. 

On the word trash there may be the gesture of scornfully 
throwing away the ‘'filthy lucre.” 


Fig. 44. 


“Each horseman drew,” etc. (p. 70.) 



Fig. 45. 


“ Steals trash.” 



All that tread 
The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
That slumber in its bosom. 


On the word handful the hand rejects them, throws them 
away and aside as being comparatively insignificant. 

All nations before him are as nothing, 

On the gesture of place, indicating all nations, there may 
he a wide sweep of one or both arms to express universality. 
(P. 83, fig. 46.) On the word nothing, the imitative gesture 
descends, the action being that of one throwing away or drop¬ 
ping as utterly worthless. 






















82 


THE SIXTH READER. 


and they are counted to him less than nothing, and vanity. 

On the word less there is the same imitative gesture of con¬ 
temptuous throwing away. 

Behold the nations are as a drop of a bucket, and are counted as the 
sniall dust of the balance ! 

On the words drop and dust there is a similar movement 
of the arm and hand, as of one discarding what is of no value. 
This gesture should not be made at the front; for when Ave 
throw away or reject as valueless, we do not cast the thing 
where it Avill be an obstacle, or even visible, in our path. 
Neither do Ave throAV it far to the rear; for that Avould require 
too much bodily exertion, and such action Avould seem to give 
it temporary importance ; but Ave toss it down at the right or 

at the left; commonly the right, because the right hand is 
mainly employed. 

It is utterly useless to prolong the strife. 

Here, on the word useless, the action is again that of a person 
flinging away a trifle; or, if one prefer, he may drop the hand 
as if it Avere paralyzed, and for the moment assume the attitude 
of helplessness. (Fig. 1.) 

The finest declamations of Burke sink into insignificance. 

The same gesture of throAving aAvay on the Avord insignificance. 

I will not call him fool, because he happens to be Chancellor of the 
Exchequer. 

The same gesture on the Avord fool, Avith a little quicker 
stroke to indicate anger. (See Emphatic Gestures.) 

Secondly. The action in concession is that of a person con¬ 
veying in his hand something Avhicb he surrenders.* The hand 
should then be extended forward and open, the palm up 
and turned a little to the front,—just as much so as if it 
contained something actually to be placed in the hand or at 
the feet of the person to whom the concession is made. 


INTRODUCTION. 


83 


Fig. 46. 


Fig. 47. 




“ All nations,” etc. (p. 81.) 


“ 1 freely grant all.” 


I freely grant all that you demand. 

The hand moves forward on a line nearly horizontal, palm 
upwards, the hand, at the word grant., slightly turning on the 
wrist as on a pivot; and when it has been extended as far as 
convenient, it remains for a time in that position of offering, as if 
it were to give the recipient time to take that which is yielded. 

I grant him, bloody, luxurious, avaricious, false. 

On the word grant the same gesture. 

Brutus is an honorable man. 

This is concession, and may be expressed in the same manner. 

Politeness may require the speaker to bow ceremoniously at 
the same time that he moves forward the hand; the principle 
being that the speakef should imitate the action and attitude 
of one yielding or conceding a visible and tangible object, 
which usually may, for the moment, be conceived of as being 
in the hand. 

Extreme humility, submission, and obsequiousness are ex- 







84 


TEE SIXTH HEADER 




pressed by the posture and motions of a deferential servant 
before liis master, or a polished courtier before his king. 


Most high, most mighty, and most puissant Cjesar, 
Metellus Cimber throws before thy seat 
An humble lieart. 


INo better general direction can be given for tlie delivery 
of these and similar lines than that, during the utterance of 
them, one should imagine himself actually in the position of 
the original speaker, and imitate his manner as far as dignity 
will permit. (Fig. 48.) 


Is there any limit to the extent to which imitative gestures 
should be used 1 Yes. 

First, there may be an imitation which is false, because too 
literal. Thus, in one of Percival’s hymns, we have the follow¬ 
ing lines in honor of those who fought at Bunker’s Hill: — 

Hail to the morn when first they stood 
On Bunker’s height! 

And fearless stemmed the invading flood, 

AikI wrote our dearest rights in blood, 

And mowed in ranks the hireling brood 
In desperate fight! 

Here a too close imitation would go through the exact 
motions of writing in the fourth line; or, worse still, would, 
as it were, accurately swing a scythe in the fifth! 

Secondly, there may be excessive or undignified imitation; 
as if one describing a gymnast’s feats should turn a summer¬ 
sault, or stand on his head in presence of the audience; or 
should take some steps of a Highland fling, to illustrate a 
description of such a dance. * 

Decorum, therefore, and dignity are not to be sacrificed. 
“ Suit the action to the word,” says Shakespeare, ‘‘ with this 
special observance, that you overstep not the modesty of 
nature.” 







INTRODUCTION. 


85 


Florist" 


Fig. 49. 




“Metellus Cimber throws,” etc. 


“ Winds up the ascent,” etc. 



AVe give the following analysis in further illustration of the 
[irinciples already laid down. The selection is from the speech 
of Daniel AVebster as prosecuting officer in the famous trial 
of the murderers of Joseph AA^hite. Here, too, some latitude 
must be allowed in regard to the number, the manner, and the 
extent of the vestures. 


The deed was executed with a degree of self-possession and steadiness 
equal to the wickedness with which it was planned. The circumstances, 
/iK)W clearly in evidence, spread out the whole scene before us. 


On the words, spread out the whole scene, th^e may well be an 
imitative ges;^re made by bringing the hands^ together in front, 
about the height of the ell^v, or a little higher, turning the 
palms upward, and then, with the hands in this position, 
making an outward sweep, the open hands describing about 
a quarter of a circle> the radius being the length, or a little 
more, from the elbow to the tips of the fingers. All appear¬ 
ance of stiffness must be avoided. 


A 




Deep sleep had fallen on the destined yictim and on all beneath his roof. 
A healthful old man, to whom sleep was sweet, — the first ^ound slumbers 










86 


THE SIXTH READER. 


of the night held him in tlieir soft but strong embrace. The assassin 
enters, through the window already prepared, into «an unoccupied apart¬ 
ment. 

On the words through the window, the hand is raised, and 
the finger points to the window which the orator sees in his 
imagination. At the words unoccupied apartment, the index 
finger ceases to point at the window; and the opening hand* 
by a slight motion, directs attention to the unoccupied apart¬ 
ment. These, of course, are gestures of j)lace. 

With noiseless foot he paces the lonely hall, half lighted by the moon. 

The slow motion of the murderer pacing the hall is indi¬ 
cated and slightly imitated by a slow movement of the hand; 
and at the words half lighted, the eye glances up towards the 
moon. These are mainly gestures of place. 

He winds up the ascent of the stairs 

On the word winds, the hand may be elevated a little higher 
than the forehead, and the index finger, pointing, may exe¬ 
cute a spiral, a circle* or a curve, to show the spiral motion. 
The elevation of the hand indicates place, and the winding 
motion is, of course, imitative. 

and reaches the door of the chamber. 

The index finger points to the door as the voice pronounces 
the word. 

Of this he moves the lock, by soft and continued pressure, 

% 

The hand moves, the hand and forearm rotating so that the 
hand comes nearly palm upward, imitating the motion of 
unlocking by turning a key; the ends of the thumb and 
first two fingers in contact, as if pressing on a key. 

till it turns on its hinges without noise; and he enters, and beholds 
his victim before him. 

The hand may move slowly as the words are uttered, to 


INTRODUCTION. 


87 


Fig. 50. 



“ Moves the lock,” etc. 


Fig. 51. 



“Till it turns,” etc. 


imitate the swinging of the door. On the words heholds his 
victim.^ the hand is lowered, as if to point to the victmi sleeping 
before him. 


The room was uncommonly open to the admission of light. 

On the words uncommonly open, the eye turns as if the 
speaker were inside the room and glancing up at the windows. 
The hand, somewhat elevated, may, at the same time, be waved 
in the arc of a circle, as if to call attention to a large part of 
the inside of the room. 

T.he face of the innocent sleeper Avas turned away from the murderer, 

On the word face, the hand is again extended towards the 
face of the victim supposed to be present within touching 
distance. On the words turned away, the position of the hand 
may be reversed. It had, perhaps, been supine ; it may now be 
turned palm outwards, and nearly vertical, with a slight motion, 
as if turning the face away from the murderer. 

and the beams of the moon, resting on the gray locks of his aged temple, 














88 


THE SIXTH READER. 


On the words beams of the moon, the eye glances up towards 
the window through which the moonlight streams. On the 
words resting on the gray locks, the eye is fixed on the tem23les 
of the victim. 

showed him where to strike. 

These words, pronounced with great slowness, and accom¬ 
panied by a stroke, strictly in imitation of the murderer’s blow. 


Fig. 52. 


Fig. 53. 



“The fatal blow,” etc 


“ Plies the dagger,” etc. 


may he made exceedingly impressive and thrilling. Eufus 
Choate would have rejDroduced the scene by a two-handed 
blow ! 

Tlie fatal blow is given ! and the victim passes, without a struggle or a 
motion, from the repose of sleep to the repose of death ! 

Repose of sleep. These words call attention to the place 
of the sleeping victim. On the utterance of the words to the 
repose of death the hand, which had been resting almost on 
the sleeping form, may be carried a little distance to the right, 
as if death were somewhat removed from sleep. The gesture 
is one of place. 












INTRODUCTION. 


89 


Fig. 54. Fig. 55. 



“ Raises the aged arm,” etc. “ Explores the wrist,” etc. 


It is the assassin’s purpose to make sure work ; and he yet plies the 
dagger, though it is obvious that life lias been destroyed by the blow 
of the bludgeon. 

On the words plies the hand may clinch, as it were, the 
dagger; and on the word dagger it may fall, as if striking. 

He even raises the aged arm, that he may not fail in his aim at the heart. 

On the words raises the aged arm, the motion of lifting the 
arm may he performed with the hand. 

and replaces it again over the wounds of the poniard ! 

On the words rep)laces it again over the wounds of the 
poniard, he goes through the movement of replacing it with 
the hand. 

It is needless to say that these are imitative gestures. 

To finish the picture, he explores the wrist for the pulse ! 

The gesture here imitates the position of a physician’s thumb 
and finger feeling for the patient’s pulse. 









90 


THE SIXTH READER. 


He feels for it, and ascertains that it beats no longer ! It is accom¬ 
plished ! The deed is done ! He retreats, retraces his steps to the 
window, passes out through it as he came in, and escapes. He has 
done the murder, — no eye has .seen him, no ear has heard him. The 
secret is his own, and it is safe ! 

Here the hand, the arm, and the eye follow the movement 
of the murderer from place to place. 

Ah, gentlemen, that was a dreadful mistake ! Such a secret can he 
safe nowhere. 

On the words can he safe, a long sweep of the arm, with 
open hand, beginning near the left shoulder. Just as the 
sweep is terminating, the word nowhere is uttered. A slight, 
quick shake of the head, to indicate negation, may accompany 
the utterance of the word nowhere. (See Conventional Gestures, 
page 100.) 

The whole creation of God has neither nook nor corner where the guilty 
can bestow it, and say it is safe. 

On the words the whole creation, a very extensive sweep of 



‘ ‘ Can be safe nowhere. ” 


“The whole creation,” etc. 
























INTRODUCTION. 


91 


Fig. 58. 


Fig. 59. 


\ 


“ Eye which glances,” etc. 


“ Splendor of noon,” etc. 




both hands outward from a point'just above the forehead, the 
face looking up to God; the sweeping gesture terminating in 
a slight stroke on the word God, both hands being then ex¬ 
tended to the full length of the arms. This attitude should be 
maintained until the utterance of the word bestow, and just 
after that time the bands and the face drop. 

Not to speak of that Eye which glances through all disguises, 

At the beginning of this sentence, the look of the speaker 
may be fastened on his audience, but in the ending, it is slowly 
raised. 

and beholds everything as in the splendor of noon, such secrets of guilt 
are never safe from detection, even by men. 

On the words splendor of noon, the face is high upturned, and 
the open hand, which had been lifted in front of the forehead, 
may be carried to the right to the extent of about the sixth of 
a circle. The gestures are chiefly expressive of place, as they 
draw attention to the flood of light that descends from the sky. 






























92 


THE SIXTH READER. 


III. EMPHATIC GESTURES. 

Whenever the mind is agitated, there is a natural and often 
irresistible tendency to express emotion by some bodily move¬ 
ment. Any display of bodily force by a speaker indicates a 
corresponding degree of mental excitement.*^ The stronger the 
inner feeling, the greater the outward manifestation. This is 
the foundation of all emphatic gesture. 

There was a basis of truth in the view taken by a good 
mother in Israel, in one of our rural districts, when she ex¬ 
claimed of her favorite minister, Ah! he was a powerful 
preacher. During the time that he dispensed the gospel to us, 
he kicked three pulpits to pieces, and banged the insides out 
of five Bibles.” 

The amount of physical force expended by John B. Gough 
in one of his temperance lectures is evinced by his drenching 
perspiration. 

How does bodily force accompany intense mental action 1 
Evidently there are many modes in which this might occur. 
The old lady’s minister did not confine his gestures to his 
hands and arms. Some orators have a habit of giving the 
impression of great power by rising on the toes, and settling 
back solidly on the heels. Whitefield at times stamped with 
terrible energy. Some speakers violently shake their heads. 
Some nod impressively, and it is wonderful how many de¬ 
grees of emphasis may be signified in this way. The nod 
may be almost imperceptible, the head not moving an inch ; 
or it may be extremely violent, the whole of the upper part 
of the body sharing in it. The degree of force can thus be 
graduated exactly to meet the demand. Many orators express 

* This is why, as an orator, a small man like Kossuth is placed at a disad¬ 
vantage in comparison with a large man like Edwin Forrest. The powerful 
physique of Webster gave him a great advantage over an opponent like Riifus 
Choate, although the latter was not lacking in force. It would take a dozen 
common ministers rolled into one, to make up as much bodily energy as 
Beecher possesses. 



INTRODUCTION. 


93 


more by tliis than by any other kind of gesture. But perhaps 
the most natural and the most graceful mode of expressing 
earnestness is by a blow of the hand or arm. The student will 
be fortunate, if he shall acquire the habit of spontaneously com¬ 
bining the nod or the bow with the emphatic blow. 

We lay aside, for the moment, in this discussion, all consid¬ 
eration of special motive, which may often require a blow to 
be struck, and we confine ourselves to the simple exhibition 
of emphasis. 

The stroke of the arm and hand may indicate all degrees of 
force, depending on the extent, the rapidity, and the apparent 
effort. 

The gesture with both hands increases, of course, the signifi¬ 
cance of that with one. A blow with the clinched hand is far 
more significant than one with the open hand. 

Knowledge is better than learning ; wisdom is better than knowledge ; 
virtue is better than wisdom. 

* On knowledge there may be a slight stroke, indicative of 
earnestness; on wisdom there should be a little longer and 
stronger blow of the hand; and on virtue the gesture should 
be still more extensive and forcible. 

The private citizen can check his child ; the alderman can repulse the 
private citizen ; the mayor can put down the alderman ; the governor 
can overthrow the mayor ; the president can crush the governor; the 
nation can hurl into annihilation the president. 

Here a slight stroke of the open hand may indicate the first 
degree of emphasis, that on the word child; a little longer and 
more forcible stroke may illustrate the second degree of empha¬ 
sis, that on the word citizen ; a still longer and stronger stroke 
on alderman may exemplify the third degree of emphasis, etc. 
The last stroke, that on 'president, may be made Avith the 
clinched fist.*" (See fig. 60.) 


* Instead of emphatic gestures, these consecutive sentences may be illus¬ 
trated by gestures of place; the o];)en hand or the index finger successively 





94 


THE SIXTH READER. 


Jiut these gestures of emphasis are rarely used pure and sim¬ 
ple. They are generally combined with gestures of imitation, 
or with those of locality; the power of the gesture somewhat 
depending, in almost every instance, on the display of bodily 
power; and .the display of bodily power keeping pace, for the 
most part, with the intensity of mental actioii. 

I tell you, though you, though all the world, though an angel from 
heaven, should declare the truth of it, 1 would not believe it. 


Fig. 60. Fig. 61- 



Decrees of Force. “ Thunder treason,” etc. (p. 95.) 


locating child, citizen, alderman, mayor, governor, president. They may be 
located side by side, beginning with child in front at about the height of the 
elbow, and passing, one by one, to the right, placing president about the 
fourth part of a circle from child. Or they may be located in front, one 
above the other, child being placed a little lower than the elbow, and the 
president placed, by the hand and arm extended up at an angle of about 45° 
with the plane of the horizon. Or a successively higher position may be com¬ 
bined Avith lateral positions successively more to the right ; so that the hand 
should rise diagonally from the low front to the high side position at the full 
length of the arm held at an angle of about 45° with the plane of the horizon. 

Again, gestures of imitation may be used in these consecutive sentences ; 
gestures of checking, repulsing, putting do'ivn, overthrowing, crushing, and 
hurling. These imitative gestures may be made with successively higher 
degrees of force, as we proceed to shoAV. 





























INTRODUCTION. 


95 


Preparation having been made for an emphatic gesture at the 
very beginning of this sentence, by raising the hand as high as 
the head on the words I tell you, there should be a somewhat 
emphatic stroke forward in the direction of the individuals 
addressed, the hand at the close of the blow, (which may be 
struck on the second you,) resting at or a little below the height 
of the elbow. Prom the second though to the word world, the 
hand is engaged in making an outward sweep, a little above the 
horizontal line ; and on the word world, which is quite emphatic, 
this outward sweep terminates, it having become almost a 
blow. On the words though an angel, the hand is raised above 
the head, and the eyes are cast toward the zenith; and on 
the word heaven, a stroke may be made upward toward the 
sky. This last stroke should be made Avith a vigor propor¬ 
tioned to the earnestness of the sjAeaker. 

We give, in further illustration, the following extract from 
a Fourth of July oration on Education, by Horace Mann. 

Eemember, then, the child, whose voice first lisps to-day, before that 
voice shall whisper sedition in secret, or thunder treason at the head 
of an arme^ band. 

If this were the first sentence of a speech, no gesture would 
be required; but as it is a peroration, and the speaker and the 
audience may be supposed to be wrought up to a high degree 
of excitement, a slight stroke, by way of emphasizing the word 
child, and a larger and stronger blow on the Avord treason, 
Avould seem appropriate. 

\ 

Eemember the infant whose hand to-day first lifts the tiny bauble, 
before that hand shall scatter firebrands, arrows, and death. 

On the words first lifts the tiny bauble, an imitative gesture, 
as of one raising a child’s plaything to about the height of the 
forehead, the gesture also serving as a preparation. The hand 
remaining uplifted, the gesture on the Avord firebrands assumes 
a different character : a very forcible stroke, as of one scat¬ 
tering or hurling, may be made Avith a long sweep obliquely 
doAvnAvard from front to rear. (Fig. 62.) 


96 


THE SIXTH READER. 


Remember those sportive groups of youth, in whose halcyon bosoms 
there sleeps an ocean, as yet scarce ruffled by the passions that soon shall 
awake and heave it as with a tempest’s strength. 

On sportive groups of youth, a wave of the hand, as if to 
indicate the location of the youth. On the word awake, 
gesture somewhat imitative, made with both hands, lifted 
suddenly to the height of the shoulders, or thereabouts, the 
hands being raised from the prone to the vertical position. 
On the word tempest's, the hands, which have been poised 
with palms uplifted to the front, are brought down with a 
forcible stroke of the arms to a position a little lower than 
the height of the elbow. The hands may close in descending, 
so that at the end, the back of the hands being down, they 
will be clinched, indicating great power. 

Remember that whatever station in life you may occupy, these mortals, 
these immortals, are your care. Devote, expend, consecrate yourselves 
to the holy work of their improvement. 

On the word immortals — that is, on the accented im - 

there should be an emphatic nod or other gesture. On the 

Fig. 62. Fio- 63. 



“ Scatter firebrands,” etc. (p. 95.) "With a tempest’s strength.” 


































INTRODUCTION. 


97 


words devote, expend, and consecrate, blows may be successively 
struck with increasing length and force. 

Pour out light and truth, as God pours sunshine and rain. 

On the words pour out light and truth, an imitative gesture 
may be used, beginning with the hands near the breast, the 
hands being carried open, the palms to the front, in curved 
lines forward and outward ; the gesture resting when the hands 
have reached the distance of the extended arm. The ideas 
being of an exalted nature, the look should be somewhat ele¬ 
vated; and on the word God, the eye should glance upward, 
tlie hands being all the while held in the extended position 
,till the last word of the sentence is uttered. 

No longer seek knowledge as the luxury of a few, but dispense it freely 
among all as the bread of life. 

On the word feiv, a slight gesture of the hand, beginning, 
perhaps, near the height of the elbow, and passing downwards 
and slightly outwards, the gesture being imitative and indi¬ 
cating a matter of trifling importance, the gesture ending with 
the hand at the side and a little to the rear. On the word 
dispense both hands should be raised in preparation for a wide 
sweeping gesture to begin on the word freely, and end with an 
outward stroke on all, the hands then being extended to the 
full length of the arms on the right and the left, and at the 
height of the shoulders; the gesture indicating universality. 
On the words bread of life, another upward glance, intimating 
that the bread of life “ cometh down from heaven.” 

Learn only how the ignorant may learn ; how the innocent may be 
preserved; the vicious, reclaimed. 

On ignorant, preserved, and reclaimed there may be succes¬ 
sive nods indicating emphasis; the voice falling on each, and 
the eye glancing in different directions on the words ignorant, 
innocent, and vicious, as if these persons occupied different 
places. 


98 


THE SIXTH HEADER. 


Call down the astronomer from the skies ; 

A gesture of location, beginning with the elevation of the 
hand and of the eye at the beginning of the sentence, and ter¬ 
minating with the hand lifted high towards the zenith on the 
word skies. 

call up the geologist from his subterranean explorations ; 

The hand begins to be lowered on the word geologist., and 
the descending gesture terminates with a slight stroke on ex- 
jdorations, as if locating them below the surface of the earth. 

summon, if need be, the mightiest intellects from the council-chamber 
of the nation ; enter cloistered halls, where the scholiast muses .over su¬ 
perfluous annotations ; dissolve conclave and synod, where subtle polemics 
are vainly discussing their barren dogmas ; 

On the words intellects from the council-chamher, the eye 
may be turned and the hand extended toward the supposed 
locality. On enter cloistered halls, another gesture of location, 
— a sweep of the hand towards the imagined place. So on 
conclave and synod. A look of pitying contempt on the 
words scholiast and superfluous; a gesture of contempt on the 
words barren dogmas, preparation having been made for the 
scornful gesture by lifting the hand at the word vainly nearly 
to the height of the breast, the gesture being imitative of 
one rejecting what is utterly worthless, the backward or side- 
wise stroke being on the word dogmas. 

and go forth and teach this people. 

On the words go forth, a gesture partly imitative and partly 
by way of location, the hand being carried from the breast 
forward and upward to the full extent of the arm; and then, 
without dropping the hand, a gesture of emphasis on the word 
teach, the gesture being made by a forcible stroke down in front. 

For in the name of the living God it must be i)roclaimed that licen¬ 
tiousness shall be the liberty, and violence and chicanery shall be the 


INTRODUCTION. 


99 



111 the name of,” elc. (p. 98.) “ The only happiness,” etc. 


law, and superstition and priestcraft shall be the religion, and the self¬ 
destructive indulgence of all sensual 'and unhallowed passions shall be 
the only happiness, of that people which neglects the education of its 
children ! 

On the word God, a gesture of some emphasis, and yet 
partly of location, made by lifting the hand to the height of 
the head, and striking upward on the word God, so that the 
arm will he extended straight towards heaven. The hand is 
then slowly withdrawn as far as the head, and an emphatic 
gesture is made by a downward stroke on the word liberty, 
and, again, on law. On religion, another still more forcible 
blow is struck for emphasis. On the word happiness, it might 
not be inappropriate to increase the emphasis by a stroke of 
both hands, due preparation having been made for the stroke 
by lifting both to about the height of the forehead. It is 
especially important for the student to take notice that all, or 
nearly all, of the emphatic gestures of the hand and arm may 
be made still more emphatic by combining with them a simul¬ 
taneous nod. (See pages 92, 93.) 



























100 


THE SIXTH READER. 


IV. CONVENTIONAL GESTURES. 

Under this head we include those gestures which by com¬ 
mon iisage have come to have a certain significance, without 
being palpably founded on place, manner, or degree; that i&, 
they do not indicate locality, nor do they imitate, nor em¬ 
phasize. Such is the uplifted hand, the fingers perpendicular 
and joined, the palm turned to the front, at the height of the 
face; that being the position required in the administration 
of an oath. Such are the bow of a speaker to his audience 
at the beginning of his address; the clasping of the hands or 
placing the palms together in front of the breast in the act of 
adoration; folding the arms across the breast, indicating com¬ 
posure ; kneeling in the act of prayer; the nod of affirmation ; 
and the shaking of the head, indicating negation. Conven¬ 
tional gestures are not very numerous. 

• t 

V. GESTURES OF ACTUAL PERFORMANCE. 

These hardly need to be mentioned. They are simply the 
motions of a speaker performing what he describes, or manipu¬ 
lating implements; as of a chemical lecturer handling retorts, 
crucibles, etc. 


DIRECTIONS. 

1. Avoid all awkward, ungainly, or uncouth gestures and 
attitudes. It is a good rule never to take, unless unavoidable, 
and never to remain in, a posture in which you would not 
be willing to have your picture taken, or in which you would 
not be willing to be represented in a marble statue. 

2. Unless the significance of the passage require it, avoid 
gestures that move in a straight line. So far as practicable, 
the hand should generally move in a curve. 

3. Examine the passage beforehand, and ascertain if any 


INTRODUCTION. 


101 


gestures of place are requisite to present clearly the ideas; 
and then examine it in order to discover whether additional 
distinctness or vividness can be added by gestures of imitation. 
If you feel like imitating, imitate; being careful, however, as 
Shakespeare advises, “ not to overstep the modesty of nature.” 

4. There will be little need of scrutinizing the passage to 
discover where gestures of emphasis may be needed. One who 
feels deeply what he is saying, may generally, so far as mere 
emphasis is concerned, safely yield to the impulses of nature. 
If you feel like striking, strike. 

5. Let your face and your attitude express the state of i^our 
mind; not the opposite, except for comic effect. 

6. Use no gesture for which you cannot give a good reason. 

7. Finally, the complete elocutionary analysis of any pas¬ 
sage will include the process laid down on pages 53, 54 lor the 
elements of vocal expression. 






w 






^ / ' / 






The Sixth Reader. 

-•- 


I. — CONSTITUTIONAL OBLIGATIONS OF THE 

AMERICAN PEOPLE. 


JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. 


I John Quincy Adams was born in Braintree, Massachusetts, July 11, 1767, and 
died at Washington, February 23, 1848.| tee was for half a century in the service of 
his country, as Foreign Minister, Unite'd'States Senator, Secretary of State, President 
of the United States, and from 1831 to the time of his death member of the House 
of Representatives.^ jlle was a man of indomitable energy, dauntless courage, inde¬ 
fatigable industry,^and ardent patriotism, His political opinions made him many 
enemies^ especially in his declining years, but no one ever doubted his honesty and 
integrity, or failed to respect the spotless purity of his private life.) ^Jis systematic 
industry enabled him to accomplish an immense deal of work.J ^e was a man of 
extensive learning, and familiar with ancient and modern literature.^ teis writings, 
consisting of speeches, addresses, lectures, and reports, are numeroiis'enough to fill 
several volumes. |(He was for a short time professor of rhetoric and oratory in Har¬ 
vard College, and the lectures he delivered in that capacity were published in 1810, 
in two octavo volume^J \^he following extract is from a discourse entitled “ The 
Jubilee of the Constitution,” delivered at New York on the fiftieth anniversary of 
the adoption of that instrument. ’ 

' “T Y'UHEN the children of Israel, after forty years of 

V V wanderings in the wilderness, were about to 
enter upon the promised land, their leader, Moses,f^who 
was not permitted to cross the Jordan with them, ju5f 
before his removal from among them, commanded that 
when the Lord their God should have brought them into 
the land, they should put the curse upon Mount Ebal 
arid the blessing upon Mount Gerizim. 

/Tbfs injunction was faithfully fulfilled by his successor, 
Joslnih/^nimediately after they had taken possession of 







SIXTH READER. 



the land, Joshua built an altar to tlie Lord of whole 
stones upon Mount Ebal; and there he wrote upon the 
stones a copy of the law of Moses, which lie had written 
in the presence of the children of 'Isra^ j^nd all Israel, 
and their elders and officers, and th^ir judges, stood on 
the two sides of the ark of the covenant, hom e by the 
priests and Levites, — six tribes over against Mount Geri- 
zim, and six over against Mount Ehal / and he read^all 
the words of the law, the blessings and cursings, accord¬ 
ing to all that was written in the book of the la'v^' 
^llow-citizens, the ark of your covenant is the Dec¬ 
laration of Independence ; your Mount Ebal is the 
confederacy of separate State sovereignties; and your 
Mount Gerizim is the Constitution of the United Stated 
In that scene of tremendous and awful solemnity, nar¬ 
rated in the Holy Scriptures/^^there is not a curse pro¬ 
nounced against the j^eople upon Mount Ebal^ not)a 
blessing promised them upon Mount Gerizim,h which 
yoiir posterity may not suffer or enjoy from your and 
their adherence to or departure from the principles of 
the Declaration of Independence, practically interwoven 
in the Constitution of the United Statesl^f 
l^'Lay up these principles, then, in your hearts and in 
your souls ; hind them for signs upon your^heads, that 
they may he as frontlets between your eyes ; teach them 
to your children, speaking of them when sitting in your 
houses, when walking hj the way, when lying down, and 
when rising up; write them upon the door-plates of your 
houses, and upon your gates; cling to them as to the 
issues of life; adhere to them as to the cords of your 
eternal salvation feo may your children’s children, at 
the next return oF*this day of jubilee, alter a full century 
of experience under your national Constitution, celebrate 


TO A WATERFOWL. 


105 


it again, in the full enjoyment of all the blessings recog¬ 
nized by you in commemoration of this clay, and of all 
the blessings promised to the children of Israel upon 
Mount Gerizim as the reward of obedience to the law of 


God'I ■ 



/W - , 

./Vn. L. ^ 


- *o*— 

II.-tTO A WATERFOWL 

BRYANT. 


William Cullen Bryant was born in Curamington, Massachusetts, November 3, 
1794. He was admitted to the bar, but soon left the profession of the law, and has 
for many years resided in or near the city of New York, as one of the editors and 
proprietors of the “ New York Evening Post,” a daily paper which has a wide circu¬ 
lation and much influence. It is not necessary to point out, at any length, the merits 
of a poet whose productions were the delight of his own countrymen, and were well 
known abroad, long before the young persons for whose use this work is intended 
were born. It is enough to say that his poems are distinguished by the perfect flnish 
of their style, their elevated tone, their dignity of sentiment, and their lovely pictures 
of American scenery. He is, at once, the most truthful and the most delightful of 
painters. We find in his pages all the most obvious and all the most retiring graces 
of our native landscapes, but nothing borrowed from books, — nothing transplanted 
from a foreign soil. 


Whither, midst falling dew, 

^ While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, 
Far through their rosy depths dost thou pursue 
Thy solitary way 'I 

Vainly the fowler’s eye 

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, 

Thy figure floats along. 

Seek’st thou the plashy brink 
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide. 

Or Avhere the rocking billows rise and sink 
On the chafed ocean-side 1 




106 


THE SIXTH READER. 


There is a Power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, — 

The desert and illimitable air, — 

Lone wandering, but not lost. 

All day thy wings have fanned, 

At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere. 

Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land. 

Though the dark night is near. 

• And soon that toil shall end ; 

Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest. 

And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend 
Soon o’er thy sheltered nest. 

Thou ’rt gone ; the abyss of heaven 
Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet on my heart 
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given. 

And shall not soon depart. 

( He who, from zone to zone. 

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 
In the long way that I must tread alone 
Will lead my steps aright. 


-•O*- 


III —THE BUENING OF MOSCOW. 


O N the 14th of September, 1812, while the rear-guard 
of the Eussians were in the act of evacuating 

O 

Moscow, Napoleon reached the hill called the Mount of 




107 


THE BURNING OF MOSCOW. 

Salvation, because it is there that the natives kneel and 
cross themselves at first sight of the Holy City. 

Moscow seemed lordly and striking as ever, with the 
steeples of its thirty churches and its copper domes 
glittering in the sun ; its palaces of Eastern architecture, 
mingled with trees and surrounded with gardens ; and 
its Kremlin, a huge triangular mass of towers, something 
between a palace and a castle, which rose like a citadel 
out of the general mass of groves and buildings. But 
not a chimney sent up smoke, not a man appeared on the 
battlements or at the gates' • 

Napoleon gazed, every moment expecting to see a train 
of bearded ^boyars arriving to fling themselves at his 
feet, and place their wealth at his disposal. His first 
exclamation was, “ Behold at last that celebrated city! ” 
His next, “ It was full time !” His army, less regardful 
of the past or the future, fixed their eyes on the goal of 
their wishes, and a shout of “ Moscow ! Moscow ! ” passed 
from rank to rank. .... 

When he entered the gates of Moscow, Bonaparte, as 
if unwilling to encounter the sight of the empty streets, 
stopped immediately on entering the first suburb. His 
troops were quartered in the desolate city. 

During the first few hours after their arrival an obscure 
rumor, which could not be traced, but one of those which 
are sometimes found to get abroad before tlie approach of 
some awful certainty, announced that the city would be 
endangered by fire in the course of the night. The report 
seemed to arise from those evident circumstances which 
rendered the event probable ; but no one took any notice 
of it until at midnight, when the soldiers were startled 
from their quarters by the report that the town was in 
flames. 


1 


108 


THE SIXTH EEADEll 


The memorable conflagration began amongst the ware¬ 
houses and workshops in the bazaar, or general market, 
wliich was the richest district of the city. It was im¬ 
puted to accident, and the progress of the flames was sub¬ 
dued by the exertions of the French soldiers. 

Napoleon, who had been aroused by the tumult, hurried 
to the spot; and when the alarm seemed at an end, he 
retired, not to his former quarters in the suburbs, but to 
the Kremlin, the hereditary palace of the only sovereign 
whom he had ever treated as an equal, and over whom 
his successful arms had now attained such an apparently 
immense superiority. Yet he did not suffer himself to be 
dazzled by the advantage he had obtained, but availed 
himself of the light of the blazing bazaar to write to the 
Emperor j^roposals of peace with his own hand. 

They were despatched by a Eussian officer of rank, 
wlio had been disabled by indisposition from following 
the army; but no answer was ever returned. 

Next day the flames had disappeared, and the French 
officers luxuriously employed themselves in selecting 
out of the deserted palaces of Moscow that which best 
pleased the fancy of each for his residence. At night 
the flames again arose in the north and west quarters of 
tlie city. 

As the greater part of the houses were built of wood, 
the conflagration spread with the most dreadful rapidity. 
This was at first imputed to tlie blazing brands and sparks 
whicli were carried by the wind ; but at length it was 
observed tliat as often as tlie wind changed — and it 
changed three times in that terrible night — new flames 
broke out in that direction where the existing gale was 
calculated to drive them on the Kremlin. 

These horrors were increased by the chance of explo- 


THE BURNING OF MOSCOW. 


109 


sion. ' There was, though as yet unknown to the French, 
a magazine of powder in the Kremlin; besides that, a 
park of artillery, with its ammunition, was drawn up 
under the Emperor’s window. 

Morning came, and with it a dreadful scene. During 
the whole night the metropolis had glared with an un¬ 
timely and unnatural light. • It was covered with a thick 
and suffocating atmosphere of almost palpable smoke. 
The flames defied the efforts of the French soldiery ; and 
it is said that the fountains of the city had been rendered 
inaccessible, the water-pipes cut, and the fire-engines de¬ 
stroyed or carried off. 

Then came the report of fireballs having been found 
burning in deserted houses; of men and women that, 
like demons, had been seen openly spreading flames, and 
who were said to be furnished with combustibles for ren¬ 
dering their dreadful work more secure. Several wretches 
against whom such acts had been charged were seized 
upon, and, probably without much inquiry, were shot on 
the spot. 

While it was almost impossible to keep the roof of 
the Kremlin clear of the burning brands which the wind 
showered down, Napoleon watched from the windows the 
course of the fire which devoured his fair conquest, and 
the exclamation burst from him, “ These are indeed 
Scythians ! ” 

The equinoctial gales rose higher and higher upon the 
third night, and extended the dames, with which there 
was no longer any huinan power of contending. At the 
dead hour of midnight the Kremlin itself was found to 
be on fire. A soldier of the Eussian police, charged with 
being the incendiary, was turned over to the summary 
vengeance of the Imperial Guard. 


110 


THE SIXTH READER. 


Bonaparte was then, at length, persuaded by the en¬ 
treaties of all around him to relinquish his quarters in 
the Kremlin, to which, as the visible mark of his con¬ 
quest, he had seemed to cling with the tenacity of a lion 
holding a fragment of his prey. He encountered both 
difficulty and danger in retiring from the palace; and 
before he could gain the city gate he had to traverse, 
with his suite, streets arched with fire, and in which the 
very air they breathed was suffocating. 

At length he gained the open country, and took up his 
abode in a palace of the Czar’s called Petrowsky, about a 
French league from the city. As he looked back on the 
fire, which, under the infiuence of the autumnal wind, 
swelled and surged round the Kremlin like an infernal 
ocean around a sable Pandemonium, he could not sup¬ 
press the ominous expression, “ This bodes us great mis¬ 
fortune ! ” 

The fire continued to triumph unopposed, and con¬ 
sumed in a few days what had cost centuries to raise. 
“ Palaces and temples,” says a Eussian author, “ monu¬ 
ments of art and miracles of luxury, the remains of ages 
which had passed away and those which had been the 
creation of yesterday, the tombs of ancestors and the 
nursery-cradles of the present generation, were indis¬ 
criminately destroyed. * Nothing was left of Moscow 
save the remembrance of the city, and the deep resolu¬ 
tion to avenge its fall! ” 

The fire raged till the 19th with unabated violence, 
and then began to slacken for want of fuel. Four fifths 
of this great city were laid in ruins. 



, 7 

YE MAIUiXERS OF ENGLAND. lU 


IV.—YE MAPJNEES OF ENGLAND. 


CAMPBELL. 


Thomas Campbell was bom in (Basgow, July 27, 1777, and died in Boulogne, 
France, June 15, 1844. His first poem, “ The Pleasures of Hope,” was published in 
1799, and was universally read and admired. His “Gertrude of Wyoming” was 
published in 1809, and was received with equal favor. It contains passages of great 
descrijitive beauty, and the concluding portions are full of pathos; but the story 
moves languidly, and there is a want of truth in the costume, and of probability in 
the incidents. His genius is seen to greater advantage in his shorter poems, such as 
“O’Connor’s Child,” “ Lochiel’s Warning,” “ Hohenlinden,” “The Battle of the 
Baltic,” and “Ye Mariners of England.” These are matchless poems, with a ring 
and power that stir the blood, and at the same time a magic of expression which 
fastens the words forever to the memory. 





Y e mariners of England, 

That guard our native seas, 
Whose flag has braved a thousanil years 
The battle and the breeze ! 

Your glorious standard launch again 
To meet another foe; 

And sweep through the deep 
While the stormy winds do blow ; 
While the battle rages loud and long. 
And the stormy winds do blow! 



The spirits of your fathers 
Shall start from every wave! 

For the deck it was their field of fame. 
And ocean was their grave. 

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell. 
Your manly hearts shall glow. 

As ye sweep through the deep 
While the stormy tempests blow ; 
While the battle rages loud and long. 
And the stormy tempests blow. 


Britannia needs no bulwarks. 
No towers along the steep; 


L- ' 




112 


THE SIXTH READER. 


Her march is o’er the mountain waves, 
Her home is on the deep. 

With thunders from her native oak, 
She quells the floods below. 

As they roar on the shore 
When the stormy tempests blow; 
When the battle rages loud and long. 
And the stormy tempests blow. 

The meteor flag of England 
Shall yet terrific burn, 

5 Till danger’s troubled night depart. 
And the star of peace retur n. . 

Then, then, ye ocean warriors, 

Our song and feast shall flow 
To the fame of your name. 

When the storm has ceased to blow. 
When the fiery fight is heard no more, 
And the storm has ceased to blow. 




/ 


V. —THE POLISH BOY. 

MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS. 


Ann Sophia Stephens was bom in Derby, Connecticut, in 1813. Her maiden 
name was Winterbotham. She married in 1832, and moved to Portland, Maine, 
where she edited “The Portland Magazine” and “The Portland Sketch-Book." In 
1837 she removed to New York City, and has since been a frequent and popular 
contributor to the periodical literature of the country. She has published several 
separate works, the best known of which is a novel called “Fashion and Famine.” 
An edition of her works was published in 1869 - 70, in fourteen volumes. 


W HEYCE come those shrieks, so wild and shrill 
That cut, like blades of steel, the air, 

Causing the creeping blood to chill 
With the sharp cadence of despair 1 







THE POLISH BOY. 


113 


Again they come, as if a heart 
Were cleft in twain by one quick blow, 

And every string had voice apart 
To utter its peculiar woe. 

Whence came they 1 from yon temple, where 
An altar, raised for private prayer, 

Now forms the warrior’s marble bed. 

Who Warsaw’s gallant army led. 

The dim funereal tapers throw 
A holy lustre o’er his brow. 

And burnish, with their rays of light. 

The mass of curls, that gather bright 
Above the haughty brow and eye 
Of a young boy that’s kneeling by. 

What hand is that, whose icy press 
Clings to the dead with'death’s own grasp. 
But meets no answering caress h 
No thrilling fingers seek its clasp : 

It is the hand of her whose cry 
Bang wildly late upon the air. 

When the dead warrior met her eye, 
Outstretched upon the altar there. 

With pallid lip and stony brow. 

She murmurs forth her anguish now. 

But hark ! the tramp of heavy feet 
Is heard along the bloody street! ' 

Nearer and nearer yet they come. 

With clanking arms and noiseless drum. 

Now whispered curses, low and deep. 

Around the holy temple creep ; — 

The gate is burst ! a ruffian band 
Rush in and savagely demand. 


114 


THE SIXTH READER. 


With brutal voice and oath profane, 

The startled boy, for exile’s chain! 

The mother sprang with gesture wild. 

And to her bosom clasped her child ; 

Then, with pale cheek and flashing eye. 
Shouted, with fearful energy, 

“ Back, ruffians, back ! nor dare to tread 
Too near the body of my dead ! 

Nor touch the living boy. I stand 
Between him and your lawless band ! 

Take me, and bind these arms, these hands. 
With Eussia’s heaviest iron bands. 

And drag me to Siberia’s wild. 

To perish, if’t will save my cliild ! ” 

“ Peace, woman, peace ! ” the leader cried. 
Tearing the pale boy from her side. 

And in his ruffian grasp he bore 
II is victim to the temple door. 

“ One moment! ” shrieked the mother, ‘‘ one ! 
Will land or gold redeem my son I 
Take heritage, take name, take all. 

But leave him free from Eussian thrall! 

Take these! ” And her white arms and hands 
She stripped of rings and diamond bands. 

And tore from braids of long black hair 
Tlie gems that gleamed like starlight there. 

Her cross of blazing rubies, last 
Down at the Eussian’s feet she cast. 

He stooped to seize the glittering store ; 
Upspringing from the marble floor 
The ihother, with a cry of joy, _ 

Snatched to her leaping heart the boy ! " 



THE POLISH HOY. 


115 


Bnt 710 ! tlie liiissian’s iron grasp 
Again undid the mother’s clasp. 
Forward slie tell with one long (^ry 
Of more than mortal agony. 


















THE SIXTH READER. 


But the brave child is roused at length, 

And, breaking from the Eussian’s hold. 

He stands, a giant in the strength 
Of his young spirit fierce and bold. 

Proudly he towers; his flashing eye 
So blue, and yet so bright, 

Seems kindled from the eternal sky, 

So brilliant is its light. 

His curling lips and crimson cheeks 
Foretell the thought before he speaks. 

With a full voice of proud command 
He turns upon the wondering band : 

Ye hold me not! no, no, nor can ! 

' This hour has. made the boy a man. 

I knelt beside my slaughtered sire, 

Hor felt one throb of vengeful ire. 

I wept upon his marble brow. 

Yes, wept ! I was a child ; but now — 

My noble mother on her knee 
Has done the work of years for me ! ” 

He drew aside his broidered vest. 

And there, like slumbering serpent’s crest. 
The jewelled haft of poniard bright 
Glittered a moment on the sight. 

‘‘ Ha ! start ye back] Fool! coward ! knave 
Think ye my noble father’s glaive 
AYould drink the life-blood of a slave ] 

The pearls that on the handle flame 
AA^ould blush to rubies in their shame ; 

The blade would quiver in thy breast. 
Ashamed of such ignoble rest. 

Ho ! thus I rend the tyrant’s chain, 

And fling him back a hoi/s disdain ! ” 




AMERICAN BATTLE-FLAGS. 


117 


A moment, and the funeral light 
Flashed on the jewelled weapon bright; 
Another, and his young heart’s blood 
Leaped to the floor, a crimson flood ! 
Quick to his mother’s side he sprang. 

And on the air his clear voice rang : 

“Up, mother, up ! look on thy son ! 

His freedom is forever won 1 
And now he waits one holy kiss 
To bear his father home in bliss; 

One last embrace, one blessing, — one ! 

To prove thou know’st, approv’st, thy son. 
What ! silent yet h Canst thou not feel 
My warm blood o’er thy heart congeal h 
Speak, mother, speak ! lift up thy head ! 
What! silent stillThen art thou dead ! 
Great God ! I thank thee ! Mother, I 
Eejoice with thee — and thus — to die ! ” 
One long, deep breath, and his pale head 
Lay on his mother’s bosom — dead ! 


o«- 


VI. — AMEEICAH BATTLE-FLAGS. 

CARL SCHURZ. 

Carl Schurz, an American statesman and orator, was born at Lihlar, near Cologne, 
in Germany, March 2, 1829. Taking an earnest jjart in the revolutionary movements 
of ’48 and ’49, he was forced to leave his native country, and went successively to 
Switzerland, Paris, and England. He came to this country in 1852. He first at¬ 
tracted attention as an orator, in the German language, in the Presidential campaign 
of 1856. He took a leading part in the convention which nominated Mr. Lincoln for 
the Presidency, and in the canvass which followed he was a very effective speaker in 
the language of his adopted country. 

After Mr. Lincoln’s election, he was appointed minister to Spain, but returned to 
the United States, December, 1861, and entered the military service as brigadier-general 
of volunteers. He served with distinction throughout the war. 

In 1869 he was chosen United States Senator from Missouri. He has taken a very 




118 


THE SIXTH EEADEE. 


conspicuous part in the deliberations of the Senate. He is a philosophical thinker, 
as well as an eloquent speaker. His speeches show a mind of much originality and 
acuteness, and he never addresses the Senate without careful preparation. 

The following extract is from his eulogy on Charles Sumner, delivered before the 
city authorities of Boston. 

In defending the course of Mr. Sumner in moving a resolution that the names of 
the battles in the civil war should be removed from the regimental colors of the array 
and the army register, Mr. Schurz defends the course of Mr. Sumner by a reference 
to parallel examples in history. The battle of the Boyne was fought July 1, 1090, be¬ 
tween William the Third, at the head of a confederate army of English and Dutch, 
and the French and Irish under James the Second. The result was the defeat of James 
and his flight into France. The battle of Cullodeu was fought April 16, 1764, between 
the English troops, commanded by the Duke of Cumberland, and the Scotch High¬ 
landers, led by Prince Charles Edward. The latter were entirely defeated and the re¬ 
bellion suppressed. 

La Vendee is the name of a department in France in which a Royalist insurrection 
against Republican France broke out in 1793 and continued until 1796, with great loss 
of life on both sides. At Villages a Hungarian army under Gorgey surrendered at 
discretion to the Austrians and Russians, August 13,1849. The battle of Koniggratz 
was fought July 2, 1866, between the Prussians under the flag of the Black Eagle, 
and the Austrians and Hanoverians, in which the latter were wholly defeated. 
The battle of Langensalza was fought June 27, 1866, the result of which was that the 
Austrians and Hanoverians were defeated by the Prussians and obliged to capitulate. 
The battle of Gravelotte was fought between the Prussians and their allies on the one 
side, and the French on the other, August 16, 1870, in which the latter were defeated 
after a desperate and bloody conflict. ^ 

& 

F EOM Europe Mr. Sumner returned late in the fall 
of 1872, much strengthened, but far from being 
well. At the opening of the session he reintroduced 
two measures, which, as he thouglit, should complete 
the record of his political life. One was his civil-rights 
bill, which had failed in the last Congress; and the 
other, a resolution providing that the names of the battles 
won over fellow-citizens in the war of the Eebellion 
should be removed from the regimental colors of the 
army, and from the army register. 

It was ill substance only a repetition of a resolution 
wliich he had introduced ten years before, in 1862, dur¬ 
ing the war, when the first names of victories were put 
•on American battle-flags. This resolution called forth a 
new storm against him. It was denounced as an insult 


AMERICAN BATTLE-FLAG^. 


119 


to the heroic soldiers of the Union, and a degradation of 
their victories and well-earned laurels. It was condemned 
as an unpatriotic act. 

Charles Sumner insult the soldiers who had spilled 
their blood in a war for human rights ! Charles Sumner 
degrade victories, and depreciate laurels, won for the 
cause- of universal freedom! — how strange an imputa¬ 
tion ! 

Let the dead man have a hearing. This was his 
thought: No civilized nation, from the republics of an¬ 
tiquity down to our days, ever thought it wise or patri¬ 
otic to preserve in conspicuous and durable form the 
mementos of victories won over fellow-citizens in civil 
war. Why not ? Because every citizen should feel him¬ 
self with all others as the child of a common country, 
and not as a defeated foe. All civilized governments of. 
our days have instinctively followed the same dictate of 
wisdom and patriotism. 

The Irishman, when fighting for old England at Water¬ 
loo, was not to behold on the red cross floating above 
liim the name of the Boyne. The Scotch Highlander, 
when standing in the trenches of Sevastopol, was not by 
tlie colors of his regiment to be reminded of Culloden. 
No French soldier at Austerlitz or Solferino had to read 
upon the tricolor any reminiscence of the Vendee.* 
No Hungarian at Sadowa was taunted by any Austrian 
banner with the surrender of Villagos.*!* No German 
regiment from Saxony or Hanover, charging under the 
iron hail of Gravelotte, J was made to remember, by 
words written on a Prussian standard, that the black 

* Vendee, van(g)-da^ 

+ Villagos, vel-ya'gos. 

J Gravelotte, grav-lot'. 


120 


THE SIXTH READER. 


eagle had conquered them at K®niggratz* and Lan- 
gensalza.*!" 

Should the son of South Carolina, when at some future 
day defending the Eepublic against some foreign foe, be 
reminded by an inscription on the colors floating over 
him, that under this flag the gun was fired that killed his 
father at Gettysburg ? Should this great and enlightened 
Eepublic, proud of standing in the front of human pro- ^ 
gress, be less wise, less large-hearted, than the ancients 
were two thousand years ago, and the kingly governments 
of Europe are to-day ? 

Let the battle-flags of the brave volunteers, which they 
brought home from the war with the glorious record of 
their victories, l)e preserved intact as a proud ornament 
of our State Houses and armories; but let the colors of 
the army, under which the sons of all the States are to 
meet and mingle in common patriotism, speak of nothing 
but union, — not a union of conquerors and conquered, 
but a union which is the mother of all, equally tender to 
all, knowing of nothing but equality, peace, and love 
among her children. 

Do you want conspicuous mementos of your victories ? 
They are written upon the dusky brow of every freeman 
who was once a slave ; they are written on the gate-posts 
of a restored Union ; and the most glorious of all will be 
written on the faces of a contented people, reunited in 
common national pride. 

Such were the sentiments wdiich inspired that resolu¬ 
tion. Such were the sentiments which called forth a 
storm of obloquy. Such were the sentiments for which 
the Legislature of Massachusetts passed a solemn resolu- 

* Koiiiggratz, kon'ig-gretz. 

+ Langensalza, lang-en-sal'tsa.4 


AMERICAN BATTLE-FLAGS. 


. 121 


tion of Gtnsiu'f upon Charks Sumiiir, — Massacliu,stttts, 
his ©wu Massachusetts, whom h«s lev^d s« ardently with 
a filial leve, wliom he was s« preud, wh® had hun- 
•red him se much in days gene by, and whem he 
had se leng and se faithfully labeled te serve and t© 
hener. 

#li! these were e^dl days, that winter; days sad and 
dark, when he sat there in his leneseme chamber, unable 
t® leave it, the werld nieving areund him, and in it se 
much that was hostile, and he—prostrated by the tor¬ 
menting disease, which had returned with fresh violence 

— unabk to de{(«id himself, and with this bitter arrow 
in his heart. Why was that resolution held up to scorn 
and vituperation as an insult to the brave, and an unpa¬ 
triotic act ? Why w|,s he not attacked and condemned 
for it when ho first offorod it, ten ydars bofore, and wh^x 
he was in the fubiess of manhood and power ? If not 
then, why new ? Why now ? 

I shall never forget the m(rianch»ly hours I s^t with 
him, seeking to lift him up with chetfling words,/and he 

— his frame for hours racked with excruciating pain, and 
then .mhaustod with suffering — gloomily brooding over 
the thought that h% might die so. 

/ How thankful I am, how thankful every human soul 

In JMassachusotts, how thankful every American must b«, 

that h#- did not die then ! — and, indeed, more than one® 

» 

doath seemed to bo knocking at his door, — how thankful 
that li0>>was spared to see the day, when the people, by - 
striking developments, were convinced that those who 
had acted. as lie did had after all not been impelled by 
m^’o whims of vanity, or reckless ambition, or sinister 
designs, but liad good and patriotic reasons for what they 
did ; whon the hoart of Massachusotts cam® back to him 


122 


THE SIXTH READER. 


full of the old love and confidence, assuring him that he 
would again be her chosen son for her representative seat 
in the House of States; when the lawgivers of the old 
Commonwealth, obeying an irresistible impulse of jus¬ 
tice, wiped away from the records of the Legislature, and 
from the fair name of the State, that resolution of censure 
which had stung him so deeply; and when returning 
vigor lifted him up, and a new sunburst of hope illumined 
his life ! thankful we all are that he lived that one 

year longer! 

And yet,—| rave "^yon thought of it ?—if he had died 
in those dark (days, when so many clouds hung over him, 
would not then the much-vilified man have been the 
same Charles Sumner, whose death but one year later 
afflicted millions of hearts with a pang of bereavement, 
whose praise is now on every lip for the purity of his 
life, for his fidelity to great principles, and for the lofti¬ 
ness of his patriotism ? 

Was he not a year ago the same, — the same in pur¬ 
pose, the same in principle, the same in character ? What 
had he done then that so many who praise him to-day 
should have then disowned him ? See what he had done. 
He had simply been true to his convictions of duty. He 
had approved and urged what he thought right; he had 
attacked and opposed what he thought wrong. 

To his convictions of duty he had sacrificed political 
associations most dear to him, the security of his position 
of which he was proud. For his convictions of duty he 
had stood up against those more powerful than he; he 
had exposed himself to reproach, obloquy, and persecu¬ 
tion. Had he not done so, he would not have been the 
man you praise to-day; and yet for doing so he was cried 
down but yesterday. 



THE CONTRAST; OR, PEACE AND WAR. 123 


He had lived up to the great word he spoke when he 
entered the Senate, —'' The slave of principle, I call no 
party master.” That declaration was greeted with ap¬ 
plause ; and when, true to his word, he refused to call a 
party master, the act was covered with reproach. 




VII. —THE CONTEAST; OE, PEACE AND WAR 

• » 

ATHENiEUM, 


PEACE. 


L ovely art thou, O Peace! and lovely are thy chil¬ 
dren, and lovely are the prints of thy footsteps in 
the green valleys. 

Blue wreaths of smoke ascend through the trees, and 
betray the half-hidden cottage; the eye contemplates 
well-thatched ricks, and barns bursting with plenty: 
the peasant laughs at the approach of winter. 

White houses peep through the trees; cattle stand 
cooling in the pool; the casement of the farm-house is 
covered with jessamine and honeysuckle; the stately 
greenhouse exhales the perfume of summer climates. 

Children climb the gTeen mound of the rampart, and 
ivy holds together the half-demolished buttress. 

The old men sit at their doors; the gossip leans over 
her counter; the children shout and frolic in the streets. 

The housewife’s stores of bleached linen, whiter than 
snow, are laid up with fragrant herbs ; they are the pride 
of the matron, the toil of many a winter’s night. 

The wares of the merchant are spread abroad in the 
shops, or stored in the high-piled warehouses; the labor 




4 


A 

J24 THE SIXTH BEADER. 

of each profits all; the inhabitant of the north drinks 
the fragrant herb of China; the peasant’s child wears the 
webs of Hindostan. 

The lame, the blind, and the aged repose in hospitals; 
the rich, softened by prosperity, pity the poor; the poor, 
disciplined into order, respect the rich. 

Justice is dispensed to all. Law sits steady on her 
throne, and the sword is her servant. 


AVAR. 

They have rushed through like a hurricane; like an 
army of locusts they have devoured the earth ; the war 
has fallen like a water-spout, and deluged the land with 
blood. 

The smoke rises not through the trees, for the honors 

of the grove are fallen, and the hearth of the cottager is 

cold ; but it rises from villages burned with fire, and from 

> 

warm ruins spread over the now naked plain. 

The ear is filled with the confused bellowing of oxen, 
and sad bleating of overdriven sheep; they are swept 
from their peaceful plains; with shouting and goading 
are they driven away: the peasant folds his arms, and 
resigns his faithful fellow-laborers. 

The farmer weeps over his barns consumed by fire, and 
his demolished roof, and anticipates the driving of the 
winter snows. 

On tliat rising ground, where the green turf looks black 
with fire, yesterday stood a noble mansion; the owner 
had said in his heart: Here will I spend the evening 
of my days, and enjoy the fruit of my years of toil; my 
name shall descend with mine inheritance, and my chil¬ 
dren’s children shall sport under the trees which I have 
planted.” The fruit of his years of toil is swept away in 


A 


THE CONTRAST; OR, PEACE AND WAR. 125 


a moment; wasted, not enjoyed ; and the evening of his 
days is left desolate. 

The temples are profaned; the soldier’s curse resounds 
in the house of God; the marble pavement is trampled 
by iron hoofs; horseSj neigh beside the altar. 

Law and order are forgotten; violence and rapine are 
al)road; the golden cords of society are loosed. 

Here are the shriek of woe and the cry of anguish ; 
and tliere is suppressed indignation bursting the heart 
with silent despair. 

The groans of the wounded -are in the hospitals, and by 
the roadside, and in every thicket; and the housewife’s 
web, whiter than snow, is scarcely sufficient to stanch the 
blood of her husband and children. Look at that youth, 
the first-born of her strength; yesterday he bounded as 
the roebuck; was glowing as the summer fruits; active 
in sports, strong to labor: he has passed in one moment 
from youth to age; his comeliness has dQ,parted; help¬ 
lessness is his portion for the days of future years. He 
is more decrepit tlian his grandsire, on whose liead are 
the snows of eighty winters; but those were the snows 
of nature; this is the desolation of man. 

Everything unholy and unclean comes abroad from its 
lurking-place, and deeds of darkness are done beneath 
the eye of day. The villagers no longer start at horrible 
sights ; the sootliing rites of burial are denied, and human 
bones are tossed by human liands. 

No one careth for another; every one, hardened by 
misery, careth for himself alone. 

Lo, these are what God has set before thee, cliild of 
reason ! son of woman ! Unto which does tliine heart 
incline ? 


126 


THE SIXTH READER. 


VIIL—THE MISEEIES OF WAE. 


HALL. 


Robert Hall was born in Arnsby, Leicestershire, England, May 2, 1764, and died 
in Bristol, February 21, 1831. He was educated at the University of Aberdeen, in 
Scotland, became a clergyman of the Baptist persuasion, and was settled first at 
Bristol, next at Cambridge, then at Leicester, and lastly at Bristol again. He was a 
very eloquent and popular preacher, and hardly less remarkable for conversational 
power. He was of robust figure, but of feeble health, with a countenance expressive 
of self-reliance and intellectual strength. His works, edited, with a memoir, by 
Olinthus Gregory, and with an estimate of his character as a preacher, by John Fos¬ 
ter, have been published in England and America. They consist of sermons, occa¬ 
sional productions, and contributions to periodical literature. Their style is rich, 
animated, and pure. 


HOUGH the whole race of man is doomed to disso- 



JL lution, and we are all hastening to our long home, 
yet at each successive moment life and death seem to 
divide between them the dominion of mankind, and life 
to have the larger share. It is otherwise in war; death 
reigns there without a rival, and without control. War 
is the work, the element, or rather the sport and triumph, 
of Death, who glories not only in the extent of his con¬ 
quest, but in the richness of his spoil. In the other 
methods of attack, in the other forms which death as¬ 
sumes, the feeble and the aged, who at the best can live 
but a short time, are usually the victims; here they are 
the vigorous 'and the strong. 

It is remarked by the most ancient of poets,* that in 
peace, children bury their parents; in war, parents bury 
their children : nor is the difference small. Children la¬ 
ment their parents, sincerely, indeed, but witli that mod¬ 
erate and tranquil sorrow which it is natural for those to 
feel who are conscious of retaining many tender ties, many 
animating prospects. Parents mourn for their cliildren 
with tlie bitterness of despair; the aged parent, the wid¬ 
owed mother, loses, when she is deprived of her children, 


* PToraer. 




THE MISERIES OF WAR. 


127 


everything but the capacity of suffering; her heart, with¬ 
ered and desolate, admits no other object, cherishes no 
other hope. It is Eachel, weeping for her children, and 
refusing to be comforted, because they are not. 

But to confine our attention to the number of the slain 
would give us a very inadequate idea of the ravages of the 
sword. The lot of those who perish instantaneously may 
be considered, apart from religious prospects, as compara¬ 
tively happy, since they are exempt from those lingering 
diseases and slow torments to which others are liable. We 
cannot see an individual expir-e, though a stranger, or an 
enemy, without being sensibly moved, and prompted by 
compassion to lend him every assistance in our power. 
Every trace of resentment vanishes in a moment; every 
other emotion gives way to pity and terror. 

In these last extremities we remember nothing but the 
respect and tenderness due to our common nature. What a 
scene, then, must a field of battle present, where thousands 
are left without assistance and without pity, with their 
wounds exposed to the piercing air, while the blood, freezing 
as it flows, binds them to the earth, amidst the trampling 
of horses and the insults of an enraged foe ! 

If they are spared by the humanity of tlie enemy, and 
carried from the field, it is but a prolongation of torment. 
Conveyed in uneasy vehicles, often to a remote distance, 
through roads almost impassable, they are lodged in ill- 
prepared receptacles for the wounded and tlie sick, where 
the variety of distress baffles all the efforts of humanity 
and skill, and renders it impossible to give to each the 
attention he demands. Far from their native home, no 
tender assiduities of friendship, no well-known voice, no 
wife or mother or sister is near to soothe their sorrows, 
relieve their thirst, or close their eyes in death ! Unhappy 


128 


THE SIXTH READER. 


man ! and must yon be swept into the grave unnoticed 
and unnumbered, and no friendly tear be shed for your 
sufferings, or mingled with your dust ? 

We must remember, however, that as a very small pro¬ 
portion of a military life is spent in actual combat, so it is 
a very small part of its miseries which must be ascribed to 
this source. More are consumed by the rust of inactivity 
than by the edge of the sword; confined to a scanty or un¬ 
wholesome diet, exposed in sickly climates, harassed with 
tiresome marches and perpetual alarms, their life is a con¬ 
tinual scene of hardships and dangers. They grow familiar 
with hunger, cold, and watchfulness. Crowded into hos¬ 
pitals and prisons, contagion spreads amongst their ranks 
till the ravages of disease exceed those of the enemy. 

We have hitherto only adverted to the sufferings of 
those who are engaged in the profession of arms, without 
taking into our account the situation of the countries which 
are the scenes of hostilities. How dreadful to hold every¬ 
thing at the mercy of an enemy, and to receive life itself 
as a boon dependent on the sword ! How boundless the 
fears which such a situation must inspire, where the issues 
of life and death are determined by no known laws, prin¬ 
ciples, or customs, and no conjecture can be formed of our 
destiny, except as far as it is dimly deciphered in charac¬ 
ters of blood, in the dictates of revenge, and the caprices 
of power ! 

Conceive but for a moment tlie consternation which the 
approach of an invading army would impress on the peace¬ 
ful villages in our own neighborhood. When you have 
placed yourselves for an instant in that situation, you will 
learn to sympathize with those unhappy countries which 
have sustained the ravages of arms. But iiow is it possi¬ 
ble to give you an idea of these horrors ? Here you behold 



WINTER. 


129 


rich harvests, the bounty of Heaven, and the reward of 
industry, consumed in a moment, or trampled under foot, 
while famine and pestilence follow the steps of desolation. 
There the cottages of peasants given up to the flames, 
mothers expiring through fear, not for themselves hut their 
infants; the inhabitants flying with their helpless babes, 
in all directions, miserable fugitives on their native soil! 
In another part you witness opulent cities taken by storm ; 
the streets, where no sounds were heard but those of peace¬ 
ful industry, filled on a sudden with slaughter and blood, 
resounding with the cries of the pursuing and the pur¬ 
sued ; the palaces of nobles demolished, the houses of the 
rich pillaged, and every age, sex, and rank mingled in pro¬ 
miscuous massacre and ruin! 

♦ 


■♦O#- 


IX. — AYIXTER 

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

James Russell Lowell, an American poet and man of letters, was bom in Cam¬ 
bridge, Massachusetts, February 2, 1819. He was graduated at Harvard College in 
1838. He studied law, and was admitted to the bar, but never practised his profes¬ 
sion. He has been for many years professor of belles-lettres in Harvai’d College. 
He is a man of original genius, and in variety of intellectual power has no equal 
among our men of letters. He has very rare powers of wit and humor. His ” Fable 
for Critics ” is a brilliant satire. He has published two series-of “ Biglow Papers,” 
so called, the first of which has had great popularity both in England and America. 
No one has ever used the Yankee dialect with so much skill and effect as he. His 
serious poems are remarkable for their vigor, originality, and depth of thought. 
Many of them have been called forth by the antislavery conflict. His descriptions 
of nature are vivid and beautiful. He has published two volumes in prose, called 
“Among my Books” and “My Garden Windows,” which contain much admirable 
criticism. The following extract is from “The Vision of Sir Launfal,” a poem 
founded upon the Legend of King Arthur. 

D OWX swept the chill wind from the mountain peak, 
From the snow five thousand summers old; 

On open wold and hill-top bleak 




130 


THE SIXTH READER. 


It had gathered all the cold, 

And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer’s cheek ; 

It carried a shiver everywhere 

From the unleafed houghs and pastures bare; 

The little brook heard it and built a roof 
’ISTeath which he could house him, winter-proof; 

All night by the white stars’ frosty gleams 
He groined his arches and matched his beams; 
Slender and clear were his crystal spars 
As the lashes of light that trim the stars ; 

He sculptured every summer delight 
In his halls and chambers out of sight; 

Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt 
Down through a frost-leaved forest-crypt. 

Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed trees 
Bending to counterfeit a breeze; 

Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew 
But silvery mosses that downward grew ; 

Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief 
With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf; 

Sometimes it was simply smooth and clear 

For the gladness of heaven to shine through, and here 

He had caught the nodding bulrush-tops 

And hung them thickly with diamond drops. 

Which crystalled the beams of moon and sun, 

. And made a star of every one ; 

Ho mortal builder’s most rare device 
Could match this winter-palace of ice ; 

’T was as if every image that mirrored lay 
In his depths serene through the summer day. 

Each flitting shadow of earth and sky, 

.P, / f S'- - Lest the hap])y model should be lost. 

Had been mimicked in fairy masonry 
By the elfin builders of the frost. 

. * Groined: adorned with intersecting arches. 










AYitliin the hall are song and laughter, 

The cheeks of Christmas glow red and jolly, 
And sprouting is every corbel* and rafter 
AVith the lightsome green of ivy and holly ; 

* Corbel: a niche in a wall. 









THE SIXTH READER, 


Through the deep gulf of the chimney wide 
Wallows the Yule-log’s roaring tide ; 

The broad liame-pennons droop and flap, 

And belly and tug as a flag in the wind ; 

Like a locust shrills the imprisoned sap, 

Hunted to death in its galleries blind ; 

And swift little troops of silent sparks, 

Xow pausing, now scattering away as in fear. 
Go threading the soot-forest’s tangled darks 
Like herds of startled deer. 


e, 


But the wind without was eager and sharp, 

Of Sir Launfal’s gray hair it makes a harp. 

And rattles and wrings 
The icy strings. 

Singing in dreary monotone, 

A Christmas carol of its own. 

Whose burden still, as he might guess. 

Was — “ Shelterless, shelterless, shelterless ! ” 


x_ 


r- \ 




The voice of the seneschal flared like a torch ^ 


As he shouted the wanderer away from the porch, 
And he sat in the gateway and saw all night 
The great hall-fire, so cheery and bold. 

Through the window-slits of the castle old. 

Build out its piers of ruddy light 
Against the drift of the cold. 







THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 


133 


X. —THE OLD CLOCK OX THE STATES. 

LONGFELLOW. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 'm a native of Portland, Maine, and was gradu¬ 
ated at Bowdoin College in 1825. Soon after leaving college lie went to Europe, and 
remained there till 1829. He then returned home and assiimed the duties of professor 
of modern languages at Bowdoin College. He resigned his post in 1835, and visited 
Europe a^ain, and upon his return in 1836, was appointed to a similar professorship 
in the University at Cambridge. Here hellfc-resided ever since, but he resigned his 
professorship in 1854y 

Mr. Longfellow holds a very high rank among the authors of America, and is one 
of the most popular of living poets. He has written “ Evangeline,” “The Golden 
Legend,” “The Song of Hiawatha,” and “Courtship of Miles Standish,” narrative 
poems of considerable length; “ The Spanish Student,” a play ; and a great number 
of smaller pieces. He has a fruitful imagination, under the control of the most 
perfect taste, and a remarkable power of illustrating moods of mind and states of 
feeling by material forms. He has a great command of beautiful diction, and equal 
skill in the structure of his verse. His poetry is marked by tenderness of feeling, purity 
of sentiment, elevation of thought, and healthiness of tone. His readers are more 
than admirers ; they become friends. And over all that he has written there hangs a 
beautiful ideal light, —the atmosphere of poetry, — which illuminates his page as the 
sunshine does the natural landscape. 

Mr. Longfellow has also won enduring praise as a prose writer. His “Outre-mer,” 
a collection of travelling sketches and miscellaneous essays, his “Hyperion,” a ro¬ 
mance, and his “ Kavanagh,” a domestic story, are marked by the same traits as his 
poetry. He is a “ warbler of poetic prose,” and woidd be entitled to the honors of a 
poet had he never written a line of verse. His “ Hyperion,” especially, is full of 
beautiful description, rich fancy, and sweet and pensive thought. He is also a man 
of extensive literary attainments, familiar with the languages of modern Europe, and 
a great master in the difficult art of translation. 

S OMEWHAT back from the village street 
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat; 

Across its antique portico, 

Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw ; 

And from its station in the hall, 

An ancient timepiece says to all, — 

“ Forever — never ! 

Xever — forever ! ” 


Half-way up the stairs it stands. 

And points and beckons with its hands 


134 


THE SIXTH READER. 

From its case of massive oak, 

Like a monk, who, under his cloak. 

Crosses himself, and sighs, alas ! 

With sorrowful voice to all that pass, — 

“ Forever — never! 

ISTever — forever ! ” 

By day its voice is low and light; 

But in the silent dead of night. 

Distinct as a passing footstep’s fall. 

It echoes along the vacant hall. 

Along the ceiling, along the floor. 

And seems to say, at each chamber door, — 

“ Forever — never ! 
hlever — forever ! ” 

Through days of sorrow and of mirth. 
Through days of death and days of birth. 
Through every swift vicissitude 
Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood. 
And as if, like God, it all things saw. 

It calmly repeats those words of awe, — 

‘‘ Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! ” 

In that mansion used to be 
Free-hearted hospitality; 

His great fires up the chimney roared ; 

The stranger feasted at his board ; 

But, like the skeleton at the feast. 

That warning timepiece never ceased, — 

“ Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! ” 

There groups of merry children played; 
There youths and maidens dreaming strayed. 






THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 


135 


0 precious hours ! 0 golden prime, 

And affluence of love and time ! 

Even as a miser counts his gold, 

Those hours the ancient timepiece told, — 

‘‘ Forever — never! 

Never — forever! ” 

From that chamber, clothed in white. 

The bride came forth on her wedding night; 
There, in that silent room below. 

The dead lay in his shroud of snow; 

And in the hush that followed prayer. 

Was heard the old clock on the stair, — 

“ Forever — never ! 

Never— forever ! ” 

All are scattered now and fled. 

Some are married, some are dead; 

And when I ask, with throbs of pain, 

“ Ah ! when shall we all meet again 1 ” 

As in the days long since gone by. 

The ancient timepiece makes reply, — 

“ Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! ” 

Never here, forever there. 

Where all parting, pain, and care. 

And death and time shall disappear, — 
Forever there, hut never here ! 

The horologe of eternity 
Sayeth this incessantly, — 

“ Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! ” 



136 


THE SIXTH READER. 


XT. —THE SLAVE-TEADE. 

WEBSTER. 

Daniel Webster was bom at Salisbury, New Hampshire, January 18, 1782; and 
died at Marshfield, Massachusetts, October 24, 1852. He was graduated at Dartmouth 
College in 1801, was admitted to the bar in 1805, and settled in Portsmouth, New 
Hampshire, in 1807. He was a member of the House of Representatives from New 
Hampshire from 1813 to 1817. In the latter part of 1816 he removed to Boston, and 
resided in that city, or at Marshfield, during the remainder of his life. He was 
chosen to the House of Representatives from the district of Boston, in 1822, and was 
a member of that body till 1827, when he was elected to the United States Senate by 
the Legislature of Massachusetts. He continued there during the remainder of his 
life, with the exception of two intervals, when he held the office of Secretary of State, 
first under the administrations of Presidents Harrison and Tyler, and secondly under 
that of President Fillmore. 

For the last twenty-five years of his life, Mr. Webster’s biography is identified with 
the history of his country Having been a leader of one of its great political parties, 
the time has hardly yet come for a calm and unbiassed judgment to be passed upon 
his services ; but no candid mind will ever question the sincerity and comprehensive¬ 
ness of his patriotism, still less the splendor of his intellectual powers. He was a 
great lawyer, a great statesman, a great debater, and a great writer. As a writer — 
in which point of view alone we have now to regard him — he stands among the very 
first of his class. No style can be found more suited for the subjects of which it 
treats than his. It is strong, simple, and dignified; vehement and impassioned when 
necessary ; readily rising into eloquence, and occasionally touched with high imagina¬ 
tive beauty. He excels in the statement of a case or the exposition of a principle; 
and in his occasional discourses there are passages of a lofty moral grandeur by which 
the heart and mind are-alike affected. Some of his state papers may fairly challenge 
comparison with the best productions of the kind which the past has transmitted 
to us. ^ 

The following passage is taken from a discourse, pronounced at Plymouth, Decem¬ 
ber 22, 1820, in commemoration of the first settlement of New England. 

I E the blessings of our political and social condition 
have not been too highly estimated, we cannot well 
overrate the responsibility which they impose upon us. 
We hold these institutions of government, religion, and 
learning to be transmitted as well as enjoyed. We are 
in the line of conveyance through which whatever has 
been obtained by the spirit and efforts of our ancestors 
is to be communicated to our children. 

We are bound to maintain public liberty, and, by the 
example of our own systems, to convince the world that 


THE SLAVE-TRADE. 


137 


order and law, religion and morality, the rights of con¬ 
science, the rights of persons, and tlie rights of property, 
may all be preserved and secured in the most perfect 
manner by a government entirely and purely elective. 
If we fail in this, our disaster will be signal, and will 
furnish an argument, stronger than has yet been found, 
in support of those opinions which maintain that gov¬ 
ernment can rest safely on nothing but power and coer¬ 
cion. 

As far as experience may show errors in our establish¬ 
ments, we are bound to correct them; and if any prac¬ 
tices exist contrary to the principles of justice and hu¬ 
manity, within the reach of our laws or our influence, we 
are inexcusable if we do not exert ourselves to restrain 
and abolish tliem. 

I deem it my duty on this occasion to suggest that the 
land is not yet wholly free from the contamination of a 
traffic at which every feeling of humanity must revolt, — 
I mean the African slave-trade. Neither public sentiment 
nor the law has yet been able entirely to put an end to 
this odious and abominable trade. At the moment when 
God in his mercy has blessed the world with a universal 
peace, there is reason to fear that, to the disgrace of the 
Christian name and character, new efforts are making for 
the extension of this trade, by subjects and citizens of 
Christian states, in whose hearts no sentiment of justice 
inhabits, and over whom neither the fear of God nor the 
fear of man exercises a control. 

In the sight of our law, the African slave-trader is a 
pirate and a felon; and in the sight of Heaven, an offender 
far beyond the ordinary depth of luiman guilt. There 
is no brighter j)art of our history than tliat which records 
the measures which have been adopted by the govern- 


138 


THE SIXTH READER. 


ment at an early day, and at different times since, for the 
suppression of this traffic; and I would call upon all the 
true sons of ISTew England to co-operate with the laws of 
man and the justice of Heaven. 

If there be, within the extent of our knowledge or 
influence, any participation in this traffic, let us pledge 
ourselves here, upon the Eock of Plymouth, to extirpate 
and destroy it. It is not flt that the land of the Pilgrims 
should bear the shame longer. I hear the sound of the 
hammer, — I see the smoke of the furnaces where man¬ 
acles and fetters are still forged for human limbs. I see 
the visages of those who, by stealth and at midnight, 
labor in this work of hell, foul and dark, as may become 
the artiflcers of such instruments of misery and torture. 
Let that spot be purified, or let it cease to be of Hew 
England. Let it be purified, or let it be set aside from 
the Christian world; let it be put out of the circle of 
human sympathies and human regards; and let civilized 
man henceforth have no communion with it. 

I would invoke those who fill tlie seats of justice, and 
all who minister at her altar, that they execute the whole¬ 
some and necessary severity of the law. I invoke the 
ministers of our religion, that they proclaim its denuncia¬ 
tion of these crimes, and add its solemn sanctions to the 
authority of human laws. If the pulpit be silent, when¬ 
ever or wherever there may be a sinner, bloody with this 
guilt, within the hearing of its voice, the pulpit is false to 
its trust. 

I call on the fair merchant, who has reaped his liarvest 
upon the seas, that he assist in scourging from those seas 
the worst pirates that ever infested them. That ocean 
which seems to wave with a gentle magnificence, to waft 
the burdens of an lionest commerce, and to roll its treas- 


THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN FIELD. 139 

ures with a conscious pride; that ocean which hardy in¬ 
dustry regards, even when the winds have ruffled its sur¬ 
face, as a field of grateful toil, — what is it to the victim 
of this oppression when he is brought to its shores, and 
looks forth upon it for the first time from beneath chains 
and bleeding with stripes?—What is it to him, but a 
widespread prospect of suffering, anguish, and death? 
Nor do the skies smile longer; nor is the air fragrant to 
him. The sun is cast down from heaven. An inhuman 
and cursed traffic has cut him off in his manhood, or in 
his youth, from every enjoyment belonging to his being, 
and every blessing which his Creator intended for him. 




XII. —THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN FIELD. 

SIR WALTER SCOTT. 

Walter Scott was born in Edinburgh, August 15, 1771 ; and died at Abbotsford, 
September 21, 1832. In 1792 he was called to the Scotch bar as an advocate ; but 
he made little progress in his profession, and was soon allured from it by the higher 
attractions of literature. After having written and published a few fugitive pieces, 
and edited a collection of boi'der ballads, he broke upon the world, in 1805, with his 
“ Lay of the Last Minstrel,” which was received with a burst of admiration almost 
without parallel in literary history. This was followed by “Marmion,” and “The 
Lady of the Lake,” which added to the author’s reputation, and by “ Rokeby,” and 
“The Lord of the Isles,” which fairly sustained it. These poems were unlike any¬ 
thing that had preceded them. Their versification was easy and graceful, though some¬ 
times careless ; their style was energetic and condensed ; their pictures were glowing 
and faithful; the characters and incidents were fresh and startling ; and in the battle 
scenes there was a power of painting which rivalled the pages of Homer. The 
whole civilized world rose up to greet with admiration the poet who transported them 
to the lakes and mountains of Scotland, introduced them to knights and moss¬ 
troopers, and thrilled them with scenes of wild adventure and lawless violence. 

In 1814 there appeared, without any preliminary announcement, and anonymously, 
a novel called “ AVaverley,” which soon attracted great attention, and gave rise to much 
speculation as to its authorship. This was the beginning of that splendid series of 
works of fiction, commonly called the Wavei’ley novels, which continued to be poured 
forth in rapid succession till 1827. From the first there was verj^ little doubt that 
Scott was the author of these works, although they were published without any name ; 
and when the avowal was made, in 1827, it took nobody by surprise. Of the great 




140 


THE SIXTH READER. 


powers put forth in these novels, of their immense popularity, and of the influence 
they have exerted, and are still exerting, upon literature, it is not necessary to speak, 
nor could such a subject be discussed in a notice like this. 

Besides his poems and novels, Scott wrote a Life of Napoleon, various other biog¬ 
raphies, and many works besides. He was a man of immense literary industry, and 
his writings fill eighty-eight volumes of small octavo size. All this did not pre¬ 
vent his discharging faithfully the duties of a citizen, of a father of a family, and (for 
many years) of a magistrate. 

Scott’s life has been written by his son-in-law, Lockhart; and it is a truthful record 
of what he was and what he did. His was a noble nature, with much to love, and 
much to admire. He was a warm friend, most affectionate in his domestic relations, 
and ever ready to do kind acts to those who stood in need of them. 

The following extract from “ Marmion ” describes the battle of Flodden Field, or 
Flodden, in which the English, under the Earl of Surrey, defeated, with great slaughter, 
the Scotch, under their king, James IV., September 9, 1513. Flodden Hill, an off¬ 
shoot of the Cheviot range, is in the county of Northumberland, in England, a few 
miles from the town of Coldstream. Marmion, an imaginary personage, is an English 
nobleman of bad character. Blount and Fitz Eustace are his squires. Lady Clare is an 
English heiress, for whose hand Marmion had been an unsuccessful suitor, and whose 
lover, Wilton, now fighting on the English side, he had attempted to ruin, but failed. 
Jeffrey, in his review of ‘‘Marmion,” in the Edinburgh Review, says; “Of all the 
poetical battles which have been fought, from the days of Homer to those of Mr. 
Southey, there is none, in our opinion, at all comparable, for interest and animation, 
for breadth of drawing and magnificence of effect, with this.” 




B LOUJSTT * and Fitz Eustace rested still \ 
Witli Lady Clare upon the hill; j 
which (for far the day was spent) 
le western sunbeams now w^ere bent. 



The cry they heard, its meaning knew, 

Could plain their distant comrades view: 

Sadly to Blount did Eustace sa,y, 

“ T'^nwovthy ohicc here to stuy ! 

Xo hope of gilded spurs to-day. — t 
But see ! look up, — on Flodden bent 
The Scottish foe has fired his tent.” 

^'And sudden, as he spoke, 

From the sharp ridges of the hill. 

All dowmward to the banks of Till, 

AVas Avreathed in sable smoke. 

Pronounced Blont or Blunt. * 

+ Tliat is, no hope of being advanced to the dignity of knighthood, of 
which gilded spurs were the badge. 


THE BATTLE OF FLO BEEN FIELD. 


Voliimed and vast, and rolling far, 

The cloud enveloped Scotland’s war, 

As down the hill they broke ; 

Nor marshal shout, nor minstrel tone. 
Announced their march ; their tread alone. 
At times one warning trumpet blown. 

At times a stifled hum. 

Told England, from his mountain-throne 
King James did rushing come. — 


Scarce could they hear or see their foesj 
Until at weapon-point they close. — 

They close, in clouds of smoke and dust. 
With sword-sway, and with lance’s thrust; 
And such a yell was there, 

- Of sudden and portentous birth, 

As if men fought upon the earth, 

And fiends in uj^per air; 

0 life and death were in the shout, 

Kecoil and rally, charge and rout. 

And triumph and despair ! 

Long looked the anxious squires ; their eye 
Could in the darkness naught descry. 

At length the freshening western blast 
Aside the shroud of battle cast; 

And, first, the ridge of mingled spears 
Above the brightening cloud appears ; 

And in the smoke the pennons flev’", 

As in the storm the white sea-mew. 

Then marked they, dashing broad and far. 
The broken billows of the war. 

And plumM crests of chieftains brave. 
Floating like foam upon the wave ; 

But naught distinct they see. 

Wide raged the battle on the plain; 

Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain; 


142 


THE SIXTH READER. 


Fell England’s arrow-flight like rain; 

Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again, 

Wild and disorderly. 

Far on the left, unseen the while, 

Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle; 

Though there the western mountaineer 
Eushed with bare bosom on the spear. 

And flung the feeble targe aside. 

And with both hands the broadsword plied, 

’T was vain : — But Fortune, on the right. 

With fickle smile, cheered Scotland’s fight. 

Then fell that spotless banner white. 

The Howard’s lion fell; 

Yet still Lord Marmion’s falcon flew 
With wavering flight, while fiercer grew 
Around tire battle-yell. 

The Border slogan rent the sky. 

A Home ! a Gordon ! was the cry : 

Loud were the clanging blows ; 

Advanced, —forced back, — now low, now high. 
The pennon sunk and rose ; 

As bends the bark’s mast in the gale, 

When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail. 

It wavered ’mid the foes. 

Ho longer Blount the view could bear : 

“ By Heaven and all its saints ! I swear 
I will not see it lost! 

Fitz Eustace, you, with Lady Clare, 

May bid your beads, and patter prayer, — 

I gallop to the host.” 

And to the fray he rode amain. 

Followed by all the archer train. 

The fiery youth, with desperate charge. 

Made, for a space, an opening large, — 

The rescued banner rose, — 


THE BATTLE OF FLO EDEN FIELD. 


143 


But darkly closed the war around, 

Like pine-tree, rooted from the ground. 

It sank among the foes. 

Then Eustace mounted too; — yet stayed. 
As loath to leave the helpless maid, 
When, fast as shaft can fly. 
Bloodshot his eyes, his nostrils spread, 
The loose rein dangling from his head, 
Housing and saddle bloody red. 

Lord Marmion’s steed rushed by ; 
And Eustace, maddening^af the sight, 

A look and sign to Clara cast. 

To mark he would return in haste, 

Then plunged into the fight. 

Ask me not what the maiden feels. 

Left in that dreadful hour alone : 
Perchance her reason stoops, or reels; 
Perchance a courage, not her own. 
Braces her mind to desperate tone. — 
The scattered van of England wheels; — 
She only said, as loud in air 
The tumult roared, “ Is Wilton there ? ” 
They fly, or maddened by despair. 

Fight but to die. — “ Is Wilton there ? ” 


K>«- 


XIII.-THE BATTLE OF FLODDEX FIELD. 

(concluded.) 

W ITH that, straight up the hill there rode 
Two horsemen drenched with gore. 

And in their arms, a helpless load, 

A wounded knight they bore. 

His hand still strained the broken brand ; 

His arms were smeared with blood and sand : 




144 


THE SIXTH READER. 


Dragged from among the horses’ feet, 

With dinted shield, and helmet beat, 

■ The falcon-crest and plumage gone. 

Can that be haughty Marmion! . . . . 

When, doffed his casque, he felt free air. 

Around ’gan Marmion wildly stare : — 

“ Where’s Harry Blount h Fitz Eustace where h 
Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare ! 

Redeem my pennon, — charge again 1 
Cry — ‘ Marmion to the rescue ! ’ — vain ! 

Last of my race, on battle-plain 

That shout shall ne’er be heard again ! — 

Yet my last thought is England’s : — fly. 

To Dacre bear my signet-ring ; 

Tell him his squadrons up to bring. — 

Fitz Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie; 

Tunstall lies dead upon the field. 

His life-blood stains the spotless shield : 

Edmund is down :— my life is reft; 

The Admiral alone is left. 

Let Stanley charge with spur of fire, — 

With Chester charge and Lancashire, 

Full upon Scotland’s central host. 

Or victory and England’s lost. — 

Must I bid twice % — Hence, varlets ! fly ! 

Leave Marmion here alone — to die ! ” 

They parted, and alone he lay : 

Clare drew her from the sight away. 

Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan, 

. And half he murmured, “ Is there none 
Of all my halls have nurst. 

Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring 
Of blessed water from the spring, 

To slake my dying thirst 1 ” 

0, woman ! in our hours of ease. 








THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN FIELD. 


145 


tTncertain, coy, and hard to please, 

And variable as the shade 

By the light quivering aspen made ; 

When pain and anguish wring the brow, 
A ministering angel thou ! — 

Scarce were the piteous accents said, 
When, with the Baron’s casque, the maid 
To the nigh streamlet ran ; 

Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears ; 
The plaintive voice alone she hears. 

Sees but the dying man. 

She stooped her by the runnel’s side, 

But in abhorrence backward drew ; 

For, oozing from the mountain’s side, 
Where raged the war, a dark red tide 
Was curdling in the streamlet blue. 

Where shall she turn 1 — behold her mark 
A little fountain cell. 

Where water, clear as diamond-spark, 

In a stone basin fell. 

Above, some half-worn letters say. 

Drink, weary, pilgrim, drink, and. pray. 
For. the. kind. soul. of. Sybil. Grey. 

Who. built, this, cross, and. well. 

She filled the helm, and back she hied. 
And with surprise and joy espied 

A monk supporting Marmion’s head ; 

A pious man whom duty brought 
To dubious verge of battle fought. 

To shrive the dying, bless the dead. 
Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave. 
And, as she stooped his brows to lave, — 

“ Is it the hand of Clare,” he said, 

“ Or injured Constance, bathes my head 
Then, as remembrance rose, — 


146 


THE SIXTH READER. 


Speak not to me of slirift or prayer ! 

I must redress her woes. 

Short space, few words, are mine to spare 
Forgive and listen, gentle Clare ! ” — 

“ Alas ! ” she said, “ the while, — 

0, think of your immortal weal! 

In vain for Constance is your zeal; 

She— died at Holy Isle.” — 

Lord Marmion started from the ground, 
As light as if he felt no wound ; 

Though in the action hurst the tide 
In torrents from his wounded side. 

“Then it was truth,” he said ; “I knew 
That the dark presage must he true. 

I would the hend, to whom belongs 
The vengeance due to all her wrongs, 
Would spare me hut a day! 

For wasting fire, and dying groan. 

And priests slain on the altar stone. 
Might hrihe him for delay. 

It may not -he ! this dizzy trance —■ 

Curse on yon hase marauder’s lance. 

And douhly cursed my failing brand ! 

A sinful heart makes feeble hand.” 

Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk, 
Supported by the trembling Monk. 

With fruitless labor Clara bound, 

And strove to stanch the gushing wound. 
The Monk, with unavailing cares, 
Exhausted all the Church’s prayers. 

Ever, he said, that, close and near, 

A lady’s voice was in his ear. 

And that the priest he could not hear, 
For that ^he ever sung. 


HENRY V. BEFORE THE BATTLE OF AGINCOURT. 147 


In the lost battle, borne down by the flying, 
"Where mingles war’s rattle with groans of the dying!” 

So the notes rung ; — 

“ Avoid thee. Fiend ! — with cruel hand 
Shake not the dying sinner’s sand I — 

0, look, my son, upon yon sign 
Of the Redeemer’s grace divine ! 

0, think on faith and bliss! — 

By many a death-bed I have been. 

And many a sinner’s parting seen. 

But never aught like this.” — 

The war, that for a space did fail, 

Row trebly thundering swelled the gale, 

And — Stanley ! was the cry : — 

A light on Marmion’s visage spread, 

And fired his glazing eye : 

With dying hand above his head. 

He shook the fragment of his blade, 

And shouted, “ Victory ! — 

Charge, Chester, charge ! On, Stanley, on ! ” 

Were the last words of Marmion. 




XIV.—HENRY V. BEFORE THE BATTLE OF ^ 

AGINCOURT. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

William Shakespeare was born at Stratford-upon-Avon, in England, April 23, 
1564 ; and died April 23,1616. Very little is known of the events of his life, and of his 
personal character and habits. He married young, went to London soon after his 
marriage, became an actor, a dramatic author, and a shareholder in one of the Lon¬ 
don theatres; acquired considerable property, and retired to his native place a few 
years before his death, and there lived in ease and honor. He was the author of thirty- 
five plays (rejecting those of doubtful authenticity), written between 1590 and 1613, 
besides poems and sonnets. 

Shakespeare is pronounced by Mr Hallam, who wa.s a most conscientious critic and 
careful writer, to be the greatest name in all literature. It would, of course, be im- 



148 


THE SIXTH READER. 


possible, in the compass of a notice like this, to do anjd;hing like justice to the uni¬ 
versality of his powers, his boundless fertility of invention, his dramatic judgment, 
his wit, humor, and pathos, his sharp observation, and his profound knowledge of the 
human heart. Nor is it easy to point out to the young reader, within a reasonable 
compass, the best sources of information and criticism; for the editions of Shake¬ 
speare are numberless, and the books that have been written about him would alone 
make a considerable library. The following works, hoAvever, may be read and con¬ 
sulted with i^rofit: Drake’s “Shakespeare and his Times,” “ Hazlitt’s Lectures,” 
Mrs. Jameson’s “ Characteristics of Women,” Dr. Johnson’s preface, Schlegel’s “ Lec¬ 
tures on Dramatic Literature,” Coleridge’s “ Lectures on Shakespeare,” the notes and 
introductory notices in Knight’s pictorial edition, together with the biography pre¬ 
fixed, and, especially, the criticism upon Shakesjieare contained in Hallam’s Intro¬ 
duction to the Literature of Euroiie in the lifteeuth, sixteenth, and seventeenth cen¬ 
turies. 

Shakespeare’s life and writings teach two lessons ; which, as they are not very ob¬ 
vious to the apprehension of the young, and as they have a somewhat practical bear¬ 
ing upon life, may be here set down- He is an instance directly opposed to the By- 
ronic notion, that great genius and great unhappiness invariably go together. We 
have every reason to believe that his temperament was cheerful and joyous, and that 
is certainly the spirit of his writings. He is often tragic, but never morbid. In the 
next place, Shakespeare is a proof that the highest poetical genius is not inconsistent 
with practical and successful business habits. There can be no doubt that he was 
himself an excellent man of business, for he accumulated an ample fortune within a 
few years, and by occupations in which punctuality, economy, and method are par¬ 
ticularly important. 



What’s he, that whshes for more men from Eng¬ 


land 1 


My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin ; 

If we are marked to die, we are enough 
To do our country loss ; and if to live. 

The fewer men, the greater share of honor. 

God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more. 

By Jove, I am not covetous for gold ; 

Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; 

It yearns me not if men my garments wear ; 

Such outward things dwell not in my desires : 

Glut, if it be a sin to covet honor, 

I am the most offending soul alive. 

No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England: 
God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honor 
As one man more, methinks, would share from me. 
For the best hope I have. 0, do not wish one more ! 



HENRY V. BEFORE THE BATTLE OF AGIN COURT, 149 


Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host. 
That he which hath no stomach to this fight, — 

Let him depart; his passport shall be made. 

And crowns for convoy put into his purse ! 

We would not die in that man’s company 
Tliat fears his fellowship to die with us. 

This day is called the feast of Crispian : 

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, 
Will stand a-tiptoe when this day is named. 

And rouse him at the name of Crispian. 

He that shall live this day, and see old age, 

Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors. 

And say. To-morrow is Saint Crispian: 

Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars. 
And say. These wounds I had on Crispian^s day. 

Old men forget; yet all shall he forgot. 

But he ’ll remember with advantages 

What feats he did that day. Then shall our names, 

Bamiliar in his mouth as household words, — 

Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter, 

Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloster, — 

Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered. 

This story shall the good man teach his son j 
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by. 

From this day to the ending of the world. 

But we in it shall be remembered ; 

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers! 

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me 
Shall be my brother ; be he ne’er so vile. 

This day shall gentle his condition ; 

And gentlemen now in England, now abed. 

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here. 
And hold their manhoods cheap while any speaks 
' That fought with us upon Saint Crispian’s day. 


150 


THE SIXTH READER, 


XV. —THEEE PICTUEES OF BOSTON. 


y 


EVERETT. 


Edward Everett was bom in Dorchester, Massachusetts, April 11, 1794; was 
graduated at Harvard College in 1811; and was settled over the church in Brattle 
Street, in Boston, as successor to Mr. Buckminster, in 1813. In 1815 he was ap¬ 
pointed pro.essor of Greek literature in Harvard College, and immediately proceeded 
to Europe, with a view of making an ample preparation for the duties of his new 
position. He remained in Europe about four and a half years, during which period 
he went |;hrough an extensive course both of travel and study. Upon his return he 
assumed the duties of his pi'ofessorship, and also those of editor of the “ North 
American Review,” and continued in the discharge of both till his election to the 
House of Representatives, in 1824. He remained in Congress till 1835, in which year 
he was chosen governor of Massachusetts. To this office he was re-elected for three 
successive years. In 1841 he was appointed minister plenipotentiary to the Court of 
St. James, and he discharged the duties of that post till 1845. Upon his return to 
America he was chosen President of Harvard College, and held that office till 1849. 
He was Secretary of State for a short period, at the close of Mr. Fillmore’s adminis¬ 
tration, and in 1853 was chosen to the Senate of the United States by the Legislature 
of Massachusetts, but resigned his place the next year, on account of iU-health, and 
has since resided as a private citizen in Boston, till his lamented death, January 15,1835. 

The variety of Mr. Everett’s life and employments is but a type of the versatility of 
his powers, and the wide range of his cultivation. He was one of the most finished 
men of his time. His works consist mainly of occasional discourses and speeches, 
and of contributions to the “North American Review,” — the last of which are very 
numerous, and deal with a great diversity of subjects, including Greek and German 
literature, the fine arts, politics, political economj% history, and American literature. 
His orations and speeches have been published in three large octavo volumes. His 
style is rich and glowing, but always under the control of sound judgment and good 
taste. His learning and scholarship are never needlessly obtruded ; they are woven 
into the web of his discourse, and not embossed upon its surface. He wrote under 
the inspiration of a generous and comprehensive patriotism, and his speeches are 
eminently suited to create and sustain a just and high-toned national sentiment. 
Whatever he did, was done well; and his brilliant natural powers were through life 
trained and aided by those habits of vigorous industry which are falsely supposed 
by many to be found only in connection with dulness and mediocrity. 


rr^O understand the character of the commerce of our 
-L own city, we must not look merely at one point, 
but at the whole circuit of country, of which it is the 



this present moment of time, but we must bring before 
our imaginations, as in the shifting scenes of a diorama, 
at least three successive historical and topographical pic¬ 
tures ; and truly instructive I think it would be to see 
them delineated on canvas. 



151 


THREE PICTURES OF BOSTON. 

We must survey the first of them in the company of 
the venerable John Winthrop, the founder of the State. 
Let us go up with him, on the day of his landing, the 
seventeenth of June, sixteen hundred and thirty, to the 
heights of yonder peninsula, as yet without a name. 
Landward stretches a dismal forest; seaward, a waste of 
waters unspotted with a sail, except that of his own ship. 

At the foot of the hill you see the cabins of Walford 
and the Spragues, who — tlie latter a year before, the 
former still earlier — had adventured to this spot unten¬ 
anted else by any child of civilization. On the other 
side of the river lies Mr. Blackstone’s farm. It com¬ 
prises three goodly hills, converted by a spring-tide into 
three wood-crowned islets; and it is mainly valued for a 
noble spring of fresh water which gushes from the north¬ 
ern slope of one of the hills, and which furnished, in the 
course of the summer, the motive for transferring the seat 
of the infant settlement.’ This shall be the first picture. 

The second shall be contemplated from the same spot 
— the heights of Charlestown — on the same day, the 
eventful seventeenth of June, one hundred and forty-five 
years later; namely, in the year seventeen hundred and 
seventy-five. A terrific scene of war rages on the top 
of the hill. 

Wait for a favorable moment, when the volumes of 
fiery smoke roll away, and, over the masts of that sixty- 
gun ship, whose batteries are blazing upon the hill, you 
behold Mr. Blackstone’s farm changed into an ill-built 
town of about two thousand dwelling-houses, mostly of 
wood, with scarcely any public buildings, but eight or 
nine churches, the Old State House, and Faneuil Hall; 
Eoxbury beyond, an insignificant village; a vacant marsh 
in all the space now occupied by Cambridgeport and East 


I 


152 


THE SIXTH READEE. 


Cambridge, by Chelsea and East Boston; and beneath 
your feet the town of Charlestown, consisting, in the 
niornin^, of a line of about three hundred houses, 
wrapped in a sheet of flames at noon, and reduced at 
eventide to a heap of ashes. 

But those fires are kindled at the altar of Liberty. 
American independence is established. American com¬ 
merce smiles on the spot; and now, from the top of one 
of the triple hills of Mr. Blackstone’s farm, a stately 
edifice arises, which seems to invite us as to an observa¬ 
tory. ’ As we look down from this lofty structure, we 
behold the third picture, — a crowded, busy scene. 

We see beneath us a city containing eighty or ninety 
thousand inhabitants, and mainly built of brick and 
granite. Vessels of every description are moored at the 
wharves. Long lines of commodious and even stately 
houses cover a space which, within the memory of man, 
was in a state of nature. Substantial blocks of ware¬ 
houses and stores have forced their way to the channel. 

Eaneuil Hall itself, the consecrated and unchangeable, 
has swelled to twice its original dimensions. Athenasum, 
hospitals, asylums, and infirmaries adorn the streets. The 
schoolhouse rears its modest front in every quarter of the 
city, and sixty or seventy churches attest that the children 
are content to walk in the good old ways of their fathers. 

Connected with the city by eight bridges, avenues, or 
ferries, you behold a range of towns,* most of them 
municipally distinct, but all of them in reality, forming, 
with Boston, one vast metropolis animated by one com¬ 
mercial life. Shading off from these, you see that most 
lovely background, a succession of happy settlements, 

* Since this was written the towns of Dorchester, Roxbury, West Rox- 
bury, Brighton, and Charlestown have been incorporated with Boston. 






THREE PICTURES OF BOSTON. 153 

spotted with villas, farm-houses, and cottages, united to 
Boston by a constant intercourse, sustaining the capital 
from their fields and gardens, and prosperous in the 
reflux of the city’s wealth. 

Of the social life included within this circuit, and of 
all that in times past has adorned and ennobled it, com¬ 
mercial industry has been an active element, and has 
exalted itself by its intimate association with everything 
else we hold dear. Within this circle what memorials 
strike the eye! what recollections, what institutions, 
what patriotic treasures and names, that cannot die! 

There lie the canonized precincts of Lexington and 
Concord; there rise the sacred heights of Dorchester and 
Cliarlestown ; there is Harvard, the ancient and venerable, 
foster-child of public and private liberality in every part 
of the State; to whose existence Charlestown gave the first 
impulse, to whose growth and usefulness the opulence of 
Boston has at all times ministered with open hand. 

Still farther on than the eye can reach, four lines of 
communication by railroad and steam have, within our 
own day, united with the capital, by bands of iron, a still 
broader circuit of towns and villages.* Hark to the voice 
of life and business which sounds along the line. 

While we speak, one of them is shooting onward to the 
illimitable West, and all are uniting with the other kin¬ 
dred enterprises to form one harmonious and prosperous 
whole, ill which town and country, agriculture and man • 
ufactures, labor and capital, art and nature, wrought and 
compacted into one grand system, are constantly gather¬ 
ing and diffusing, concentrating and radiating, the eco¬ 
nomical, the social, the moral blessings of a liberal and 
diffusive commerce. 


* Eiglit lines of railroad now connect Boston with other parts of the country. 


154 


THE SIXTH READER. 


XVI. —DEATH AND BUEIAL OF LITTLE NELL. 


DICKENS. 


Charles Dickens was bom in Portsmouth, England, February 7, 1812 ; and died 
June 9, 1870. His first work — a series of sketches under the name of “ Boz ” — was 
published in 1836, and, though it showed brilliant descriptive powers, did not attract 
great attention. But the “Pickwick Papers,” which appeared the next year, fairly 
took the world by storm, and lifted the author up to a dizzy height of popularity, 
equalled by nothing since Scott and Byron. His subsequent productions were re¬ 
ceived with undiminished favor, and the interest in his works continued unabated 
till his death. In the latter years of his life, he was in the habit of reading extracts 
from his works to large and enthusiastic audiences in England and America. He 
twice visited this country, once in 1842 and again in 1867. 

His most striking characteristic is a peculiar and original vein of humor, shown in 
sketches taken from low life, and expressing itself by the most quaint, grotesque, and 
unexpected combinations of ideas. His Sam Weller — a character he never surpassed 
— is the type of his creations of this class, and is truly original and well sustained. 

He is hardly less successful in his pathetic passages than in his humorous delinea¬ 
tions. He excels in scenes depicting sickness and death, especially of the lovely 
and the young. His pages have been blistered by many a tear. The extract in the 
text is alone enough to prove his great power over the sympathies of the heart. 

He had also uncommon skill in the minute representation of scenes of still life, 
which he i)ainted with the sharp fidelity of a Dutch artist. He depicted a bar-room, a 
kitchen, a court of justice, or a prison, so that we can almost see them. He some¬ 
times used this gift in a way that violates good taste. 



The tone of Dickens’s writings is sound and healthy; though he takes us a little too 
much into scenes of low life, and obtrudes his evil and hateful characters upon us 
more than we could wish. He had a poetical imagination, and a heart full of genial 
charity. The generous and sympathetic tone of his writings is one of their most 
powerful attractions. He had a hatred of oppression and injustice in all forms, and 
was ever ready to take sides with the victim and the sufferer. 

The following extract is from “Master Humphrey’s Clock,” a novel published 
in 1841. Little Nell is one of the sweetest and purest of all his creations; and 
her life and death have touched many thousands of hearts. She is represented in the 
novel as the constant attendant of her grandfather, an affectionate old man, but 
wanting in moral energy. She glides like a sunbeam of grace and innocence through 
many a troubled scene ; but the burden of life is too heavy for her delicate spirit, and 
she thus gently lays it down. * 



Y little and little, the old man had drawn back 


—* towards the inner chamber, while tliese words were 
spoken. He pointed there, as he replied, with trembling 


lips, 


“You plot among you to wean my heart from her.^ 
You will never do that, — never while I have life. /I 



DEATH AND BURIAL OF LITTLE NELL. 155 


have no relative or friend but her, — I never had, — I 
never will have. /She is all in all to me. ^ It is too late 
to part us now.” 

Waving them off with his hand, and calling softly to 
her as he went, he stole into the room. They who were 
left behind drew close together, and after a few whispered 
words, — not unbroken by emotion, or easily uttered, — 
followed him. They moved so gently that their footsteps 
made no noise; but there were sobs from among the 
group, and sounds of grief and mourning. 

/For she was dead. /There, upon her little bed, she lay 
at rest. /The solemn stillness was no marvel now. 

/She was dead. / No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free 
from trace of pain, so fair to look upon. She seemed a 
creature fresh from the hand of God, and waiting for the 
breath of life; not one who had lived, and suffered death. 

Her couch was dressed with here and there some winter 
berries and green leaves, gathered in a spot she had been 
used to favor. “When I die, put near me something that 
has loved the light, and had the sky above it always.” 
These were lier words. 

^ She was dead. /Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was 
dead. Her little bird — a poor slight thing the pressure 
of a finger would have crushed — was stirring nimbly in 
its cage; and the strong heart of its child-mistress was 
mute and motionless forever. 

/ Where were the traces of her early cares, her sufferings, 
and fatigues ? /All gone. /His was the true death before 
their weeping eyes. Sorrow was dead indeed in her, but 
peace and perfect happiness were born; imaged in her 
tranquil beauty and profound repose. 

/And still lier former self lay there, unaltered in this 
change. "^Yes. Tlie old fireside had smiled on that same 


156 


THE SIXTH READER. 


sweet face; it had passed like a dream through haunts 
of misery and care; at the door of the poor schoolmaster 
on the summer evening, before the furnace fire upon the 
cold, wet night, at the still bedside of the dying boy, there 
had been the same mild, lovely look. ^So shall we know 
the angels in their majesty, after death. 

The old man held one languid arm in his, and kept the 
small hand tight folded to his breast, for warmth. It was 
the hand she had stretched out to him with her last smile, 
— the hand that had led him on through all their wan¬ 
derings. Ever and anon he pressed it to his lips; then 
hugged it to his breast acjain, murmuring that it was 
warmer now; and as he said it, he looked, in agony, to 
those who stood around, as if imploring them to help her. 
^ She w^as dead, and past all help, or need of it. The 
ancient rooms she had seemed to fill with life, even while 
her own was ebbing fast, the garden she had tended, 
the eyes she had gladdened, the noiseless haunts of 
many a thoughtful hour, the paths she had trodden as 
it were but yesterday, could know her no more. 

“ It is not,” said the schoolmaster, as he bent down to 
kiss her on the cheek, and gave his tears free vent, — “ it 
is not in this world that Heaven’s justice ends. Think 
what earth is compared with the world to which her 
young spirit has winged its early flight, and say, if one 
deliberate wish expressed in solemn terms above this bed 
could call her back to life, which of us would utter it! ” 

When morning came, and they could speak more calmly 
on the subject of their grief, they heard how her life had 
closed. 

She had been dead two days. They were all about her 
at the time, knowing that the end was drawing on. I She 
died soon after daybreak.) They had read and talked to 


. V 



DEATH AXD BURIAL OF UTTLE XELL. 157 


her in the earlier portion of the night; bnt as the hours 
crept on, she sank to sleep. They could tell, by what she 
faintly uttered in her dreams, that they were of her jour- 
neyings with the old man; they were of no painful scenes, 
but of those who had helped and used them kindly, for 
she often said, “ God bless vou I ” with snreat fervor. 

• O 

Waking, she never wandered in her mind but once, and 
that was of beautiful music which she said was in the air. 

/ It may have been 

Opening her eyes at last, from a very quiet sleep, she 
begged that they would kiss her once again. That done, 
she turned to the old man with a lovely smile upon her 
face. — such as thev said tliev had never seen, and never 
could foT^t. — and clunir with both her arms about his 
neck. They did not know that she was dead, at lirsL 

For the rest, she had never murmured or complained; 
but with a quiet mind, and manner quite unaltered, — 
save that she every day became more earnest and more 
grateful to them, — faded like the light upon the sum¬ 
mer's evening. 

And now the bell — the bell she had so often heard 
by night and day, and listened to with solemn pleasure 
almost as a li^'in^r voice — ranir its remorseless toll for 
her so young, so beautiful, so good. /Decrepit age, and 
vigorous life, and blooming youth, and helpless infancy 
poured forth — on crutches, in the pride of strength and 
health, in the full blush of promise, in the mere dawn of 
life — to gather round her tomby Old men were there, 
whose eves were dim and senses failing, — grandmothers, 
who might have died ten years ago, and still been old, — 
the deaf, the blind, the lame, the palsied, the living dead 
in many shapes and forms, to see the closing of that early 
grave. What was the death it would shut in, to that 
which still could crawl and creep above it! 



158 


THE SIXTH EEADER. 


Along the crowded path they bore her now, pure as the 
newly fallen snow that covered it, whose day on earth 
had been as fleeting. Under the porch, where she had 
sat when Heaven in its mercy brought her to that peace¬ 
ful spot, she passed again, and the old church received 
her in its quiet shade. 

They carried her to one old nook, where she had many 
and many a time sat musing, and laid their burden softly 
on the pavement. The light streamed on it through the 
colored window, — a window where the boughs of trees 
were ever rustling in the summer, and where the birds 
sang sweetly all day long. With every breath of air that 
s'tirred among those branches in the sunshine, some trem¬ 
bling, changing light would fall upon her grave. 

Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Many a 
young hand dropped in its little wreath, many a stifled 
sob was heard. Some — and they were not few — knelt 
down. ^11 were sincere and truthful in their sorrow. 

The service done, the mourners stood apart, and the 
villagers closed round to look into the grave before the 
pavement-stone should be replaced. One called to mind 
how he had seen her sitting on that very spot, and how 
her book had fallen on her lap, and she was gazing with 
a pensive face upon the sky. Another told how he had 
wondered much that one so delicate as she should be so 
bold, how she had never feared to enter the church alone 
at night, but had loved to linger there when all was quiet, 
and even to climb the tow^er stair, with no more light than 
that of the moon’s rays stealing through the loopholes in 
the thick, old wall. 

A whisper went about among the oldest there, that slie 
had seen and talked with angels; and when they called 
to mind how she had looked, and spoken, and her early 


TEE WATCHER ON THE TOWER. 


159 


death, some thought it might be so indeed. Thus coming 
to the grave in little knots, and glancing down, and giving 
place to others, and falling off in whispering groups of 
three or four, the church was cleared, in time, of all but 
the sexton and the mourning friends. 

^ They saw the vault covered and the stone fixed down. 
Then, when the dusk of evening had come on, and not a 
sound disturbed the sacred stillness of the place, — when 
the bright moon poured in her light on tomb and monu¬ 
ment, on pillar, wall, and arch, and most of all (it seemed 
to them) upon her quiet grave,—in that calm time, 
when all outward things and inward thoughts teem with 
assurances of immortality, and worldly hopes and fears 
are humbled in the dust before them, — tlien, with tran¬ 
quil and submissive hearts, they turned away, and left 
the child with God. 

" ' to 



XVII. —THE WATCHER ON THE TOWER. 

CHARLES MACKAY. 

Charles Mackay, an English writer, was bom in Perth in 1812. He has been, 
during much of his life, connected with the newspaper press. In 1858 he visited the 
United States, where he lectured on Poetry and Song Writing. He has published 
several Avorks, the best known of which is “ The Memoirs of Extraordinary Poimlat 
Delusions,” published in two volumes in 1851. He is best known as a writer of 
si)irited songs and lyrical pieces ; some of which have attained great popularity. In 
some cases they have been set to music by himself. 

FIRST VOICE. 

■^■vy^IIAT dost thou see, lone watcher on the tower 1 
VV Is the day breaking? Comes the wished-for hour? 

Tell us the signs, and stretch abroad thy hand 

If the bright morning dawns upon the land. 



160 


THE SIXTH READER. 


SECOND VOICE. 

The stars are clear above me, scarcely one 
Has dimmed its rays in reverence to the sun; 

But yet I see, on the horizon’s verge. 

Some fair, faint streaks, as if the light would surge. 

FIRST VOICE. 

Look forth again, 0 watcher on the tower! 

The people wake and languish for the hour; 

Long have they dwelt in darkness, and they pine 
Lor the full daylight which they know must shine. 

SECOND VOICE. 

I see not well, — the morn is cloudy still, — 

There is a radiance on the distant hill; 

Even as I watch the glory seems to grow; 

But the stars blink, and the night breezes blow. 

FIRST VOICE. 

And is that all, 0 watcher on the tower ? 

Look forth again; it must be near the hour. 

Dost thou not see the snowy mountain-copes. 

And the green woods beneath them on the slopes 1 

SECOND VOICE. 

A mist envelops them, I cannot trace 
Their outline j but the day comes on apace. 

The clouds roll up in gold and amber flakes, 

And all the stars grow dim. The morning breaks. 

FIRST VOICE. 

e thank thee, lonely watcher on the tower j 
But look again ; and tell us, hour by hour. 

All thou beholdest, — many of us die 
Ere the day comes; 0, give us a reply ! 


THE WATCHER ON THE TOWER. 


161 


SECOND VOICE. 

I see the hill-tops now; and Chanticleer 
Crows his prophetic carol in mine ear; 

I see the distant woods and fields of corn, 
And Ocean gleaming in the light of morn. 


FIRST VOICE. 

Again, — again, — 0 watcher on the tower ! 

We thirst for daylight, and we hide the hour. 
Patient, but longing. Tell us, shall it be 
A bright, calm, glorious daylight for the free 1 

SECOND VOICE. 

I hope, but cannot tell. I hear a song. 

Vivid as day itself, and clear and strong 
As of a lark, — young prophet of the noon, — 
Pouring in sunlight his seraphic tune. 

FIRST VOICE. 

What doth he say, 0 watcher on the tower 1 
Is he a prophet ? Doth the dawning hour 
Inspire his music 1 Is his chant sublime. 

Pilled with the glories of the future time 1 

SECOND VOICE. 

He prophesies ; his heart is full; his lay 
Tells of the brightness of a peaceful day, — 

A day not cloudless, nor devoid of storm. 

But sunny for the most, and clear and warm. 

FIRST VOICE. 

We thank thee, watcher on the lonely tower. 

For all thou tellest. — Sings he of an hour 
When Error shall decay, and Truth grow strong. 
And Bight shall rule supreme and vanquish Wrong? 


162 


THE SIXTH READER. 


SECOND VOICE. 

He sings of brotherhood and joy and peace, 

Of days when hate and jealousies shall cease ; 

When war shall die, and man’s progressive mind 
Soar as' unfettered as its God designed. 

FIRST VOICE. 

Well done ! thou watcher on the lonely tower ! 

Is the day breaking h dawns the happy hour ? 

We pine to see it; tell us, yet again. 

If the broad daylight breaks upon the plain 1 

SECOND VOICE. 

It breaks, — it comes, — the misty shadows fly; — 
A rosy radiance gleams upon the sky ; 

The mountain-tops reflect it calm and clear; 

The plain is yet in shade, but day is near. 





XVIII. —THE PILGEIM FATHERS. 

PIERPONT. 

John Pierpont was horn in Litchfield, Connecticut, April 6, 1785 ; and died August 
27, 1866. He was originally a lawyer, but afterwards studied theology, and in 1819 
was ordained minister of the Hollis Street Church in Boston, where he remained till 
1845. He was afterwards settled over congregations in Troy, New York, and Medford, 
Massachusetts. He was an active laborer in behalf of temperance, antislavery, the 
improvement of prison discipline, and other reforms ; and many of his poems have 
been called forth by the moral and religious movements of the day. His poetry is 
characterized by energy of expression, and a generous tone of feeling. The following 
poem was written for the celebration of the anniversary of the Pilgrim Society of 
Plymouth, in December, 1824. 

T he Pilgrim Fathers, — where are they ’I 
The waves that brought them o’er 
Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray. 

As they break along the shore; 





THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 


163 


Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day 
When the Mayflower moored below, 

When the sea around was black with storms, 
And white the shore with snow. 



The mists that wrapped the Pilgrim’s sleep 
Still brood upon the tide ; 

And the rocks yet keep their watch by the deep, 
To stay its waves of pride. 

Put the snow-white sail that he gave to the gale 
When the heavens looked dark is gone; — 

As an angel’s wing, through an opening cloud, ‘ 
Is seen, and then withdrawn. 

The Pilgrim exile, — sainted name ! — 

The hill, whose icy brow 
Eejoiced, when he came, in the morning’s flame, 

In the morning’s flame burns now. 

And the moon’s cold light, as it lay that night 
On the hillside and the sea. 

Still lies where he laid his houseless head; —• 

Put the Pilgrim, — where is he 1 

The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest: 

When Summer’s throned on high. 

And the world’s warm breast is in verdure dressed. 
Go, stand on the hill where they lie. 

The earliest ray of the golden day 
On that hallowed spot is cast; 

And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, 

Looks kindly on that spot last. 


The Pilgrim spirit has not fled : 

It walks in noon’s broad light; 


164 


THE SIXTH READER. 


And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, 

AVitli the holy stars, by night. 

It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, 
And shall guard this ice-bound shore, 

Till the waves of the bay where the Mayflower lay 
Shall foam and freeze no more. 


XIX. —DIALOGUE FEOM lYANHOE. 


SIR WALTER SCOTT. 


The following scene is taken from “ Ivanlioe,” a novel, the scene of which is laid 
in England, in the twelfth century. Ivanhoe, an English knight, is lying wounded 
and a captive in the castle of Front-de-Boeuf, a Norman knight, while it is under¬ 
going an assault from a party of outlawed forest rangers, aided by an unknown knight 
in black armor, hence called the Black Knight, who afterwards turns out to be Rich¬ 
ard, King of England. Rebecca is a young Jewish maiden. 



OLLOWING with wonderful promptitude the direc- 


J-' tions of Ivanhoe, and availing herself of the protec¬ 
tion of the large ancient shield, which she placed against 
the lower part of the window, Eebecca, wdth tolerable 
security to herself, could witness part of what was passing 
without tlie castle, and report to Ivanhoe the preparations 
which the assailants were making for the storm. 

“ The skirts of the wood seem lined with archers, al¬ 
though only a few are advanced from its dark shadow.” 

Under what banner ? ” asked Ivanhoe. 

Under no ensign of war which I can observe,” an¬ 
swered Eebecca. 

“A singular novelty,” muttered the knight, "to ad- 
advance to storm such a castle without pennon or banner 
displayed ! Seest thou who they be that act as leaders ? ” 

" A knight clad in sable armor is the most conspicu¬ 
ous,” said the Jewess ; " he alone is armed from head to 





DIALOGUE FROM IVANHOE. 


1G5 


lieel, and seems to assume the direction of all around 
him.” 

“ What device does he bear on his shield ? ” replied 
Ivanhoe. 

“ Something resembling a bar of iron, and a padlock 
painted blue on the black shield.” 

A fetterlock and shacklebolt azure,” said Ivanhoe; 
“ I know not who may hear the device, hut well I ween 
it might now be mine own. Canst thou not see the 
motto ? ” 

“ Scarce the device itself, at this distance,” replied Ee- 
hecca; “ but when the sun glances fair upon his shield, it 
shows as I tell you.” 

“ Seem there no other leaders ? ” exclaimed the anxious 
inquirer. 

“ None of mark and distinction that I can behold from 
this station,” said Eebecca; “but, doubtless, the other 
side of the castle is also assailed. They appear even now 
preparing to advance.” 

Her description was here suddenly interrupted by the 
signal for assault, which was given by the blast of a shrill 
bugle, and at once answered by a flourish of the Norman 
trumpets from the battlements. 

“And I must lie here like a bedridden monk,” ex¬ 
claimed Ivanhoe, “ while the game that gives me freedom 
or death is played out by the hand of others! Look 
from the window once again, kind maiden, but beware 
that you are not marked by the archers beneath; look out 
once more, and tell me if they yet advance to the storm.” 

With patient courage, strengthened by the interval 
which she had employed in mental devotion, Eebecca 
again took post at the lattice, sheltering herself, however, 
so as not to be visible from beneath. 


166 


THE SIXTH READER. 


What dost thou see, Rebecca ? ” again demanded the 
wounded knight. 

“ Nothing but the cloud of arrows flying so thick as to 
dazzle mine eyes, and to hide the bowmen who shoot 


them.” 


That cannot endure,” said Ivanhoe; “ if they press 
not right on to carry the castle by pure force of arms, the 
archery may avail but little against stone walls and bul¬ 
warks. Look for tlie Knight of the Fetterlock, fair Re¬ 
becca, and see how he bears himself; for, as the leader is, 
so will his followers be.” " 



“ I see him not,” said Rebecca. 

“ Foul craven ! ” exclaimed Ivanhoe ; “ does he blench' 
from the helm when the wind blows highest ?” 

“ He blenches not! he blenches not! ” said Rebecca ; 
“ I see him now ; he leads a body of men close under the 
outer barrier of the barbican. They pull down tlie piles 
arid palisades; they hew down the barriers with axes. 
His high black plume floats abroad over the throng, like 
a raven over the held of the slain. Tliey have made a 
breach in the barriers, — they rush in, — they are thrust 
back! — Front-de-Bceuf* heads the defenders; I see his 
gigantic form above the press. They throng again to the 
breach, and the pass is disputed hand to hand, and man 
to man. It is the meeting of two fierce tides, — the con¬ 
flict of two oceans moved by adverse winds 1 ” 

She turned her head from the lattice, as if unable 
longer to endure a sight so terrible. 

O O 

“ Look forth again, Rebecca,” said Ivanhoe, mistaking 
the cause of her retiring; “ the archery must in some 
degree have ceased, since they are now fighting hand to 
hand. Look again; there is now less danger.” 


* Pronounced Fron(g)-du-Buf. 


DIALOGUE FROM IVANHOE. 


167 


Eebecca again looked forth, and almost immediately 
exclaimed, — 

“ ,Front-de-Boeuf and the Black Knight fight hand to 
hand on the breach, amid the roar of their followers, who 
watch the progress of the strife. Heaven strike with the 
cause of the oppressed, and of the captive ! ” 

She then uttered a loud shriek, and exclaimed,— 

“ He is down ! — he is down ! ” 

“ Who is down ? ” cried Ivanhoe. “ For our dear lady’s 
sake, tell me which has fallen ? ” 

“ The Black Knight,” answered Eebecca, faintly; then 
instantly again shouted, with joyful eagerness, “ But 
no, — but no ! — he is on foot again, and fights as if there 
were twenty men’s strength in his single arm, — his sword 
is broken, — he snatches an axe from a yeoman, — he 
presses Front-de-Boeuf with blow on blow, — the giant 
stoops and totters, like an oak under the steel of the 
woodman, — he falls, — he falls ! ” 

“ Front-de-Boeuf ? ” exclaimed Ivanhoe. 

“ Front-de-Boeuf 1 ” answered the Jewess. “His men 
rush to the rescue, headed by the haughty Templar,— 
their united force compels the champion to pause, — they 
drag Front-de-Boeuf within the walls.” 

“ The assailants have won the barriers, have they not ? ” 
said Ivanhoe. 

“ They have, — they have ! ” excloimed Bebecca, “ and 
they press the besieged hard upon the outer wall; some 
plant ladders, some swarm like bees, and endeavor to 
ascend upon the shoulders of one another, — down go 
stones, beams, and trunks of trees upon their heads, and as 
fast as they bear the wounded men to the rear, fresh men 
supply their place in the assault. Great God ! hast thou 
given men thine own image, that it should be thus cruelly 
defaced by the hands of their brethren ? ” 


168 


THE SIXTH READER. 


“ Think not of that,” said Ivanhoe; this is no time 
for such thoughts. Who yield ? — who push their way ? ” 
“ The ladders are thrown down,” replied Eebecca, shud¬ 
dering. “The soldiers lie grovelling under them like 
crushed reptiles, — the besieged have the better ! ” 

“ St. George strike for us! ” exclaimed the knight; 
do the false yeomen give way ? ” 

“ No ! ” exclaimed Eebecca ; they bear themselves 
right yeomanly, — the Black Knight approaches the pos¬ 
tern with his huge axe, — the thundering blows which 
he deals, you may hear them above all the din and shouts 
of the battle, — stones and beams are hailed down on the 
bold champion, — he regards them no more than if they 
were thistledown or feathers ! ” 

“ By Saint John of Acre I” said Ivanhoe, raising him¬ 
self joyfully on his couch; methought there was but one 
man in England that miglit do such a deed! ” 

“ The postern gate shakes,” continued Eebecca; “ it 
craslies, — it is splintered by his blows, — they rush in, — 
the outwork is won, — they hurl the defenders from the 
battlements, — they throw them into the moat! 0 men, 

•— if ye be indeed men, — spare them that can resist no 
longer I ” 

The bridge, — the bridge which communicates with the 
castle, — have they won that pass ? ” exclaimed Ivanhoe. 

“No,” replied Eebecca; “the Templar has destroyed 
the plank on which they crossed, — few of the defenders 
escaped with liim into the castle, — the shrieks and cries 
which you hear, tell the fate of the others ! Alas ! I see 
it is still more difficult to look upon victory than upon 
battle ! ” 

“ What do they now, maiden ? ” said Ivanhoe ; “ look 
forth yet again, — this is no time to faint at bloodshed.” 


THE VOYAGE. 


169 


It is over for the time,” answered Eebecca’ “ Our 
friends strengthen themselves within the outwork which 
they have mastered, and it affords them so good a shelter 
from the foeman’s shot, that the garrison only bestows a 
few bolts on it, from interval to interval, as if rather to 
disquiet than effectually to injure them.” 


XX. —THE VOYAGE. 

IRVING. 

Washiiigtox Irving, the most popular of American authors, and one of the most 
popular writers in the English language during his time, was born in New York, 
April 8, 1783 ; and died November 28, 1859. His numerous works are too well known 
to need enumeration ; and his countrymen are so familiar with the graces of his style 
and the charm of his delightful genius, that any extended criticism would be super¬ 
fluous. His writings are remarkable for their combination of rich and original humor 
with great refinement of feeling and delicacy of sentiment. His humor is unstained 
by coarseness, and his sentiment is neither mawkish nor morbid. His style is care¬ 
fully finished, and in his most elaborate productions the uniform music of his ca¬ 
dences approaches monotony. He is an accurate observer, and his descriptions are 
correct, animated, and beautiful. In his biographical and historical works his style 
is flowing, easy, and transparent. His personal character was affectionate and 
amiable, and the.se traits penetrate his writings, and constitute no small portion of 
their charm. Few writers have ever awakened in their readers a stronger personal 
iiiterest than Irving; and the sternest critic could not deal harshly with an author 
who showed himself to be so gentle and kindly a man. 

T O an American visiting Europe, the long voyage he 
has to make is an excellent preparative. From the 
moment you lose sight of the land you have left, all is 
vacancy until you step on the opposite shore, and are 
launched at once into the bustle and novelties of another 
world. 

I have said that at sea all is vacancy. I should cor¬ 
rect the expression. To one given up to day-dreaming, 
and fond of losing himself in reveries, a sea-voyage is 
full of subjects for meditation; but then they are the 


170 


THE SIXTH READER. 


wonders of the deep, and of the air, and rather tend to 
abstract the mind from worldly themes. I delighted to 
loll over the quarter-railing, or climb to the main-top on 
a calm day, and muse for hours together on the tranquil 
bosom of a summer’s sea; or to gaze upon the piles of 
golden clouds just peering above the horizon, fancy them 
some fairy realms, and people them with a creation of my 
own; or to watch the gentle undulating billows, rolling 
their silver volumes as if to die away on those haj)py 
shores. 

There was a delicious sensation of mingled security 
and awe, with which I looked down, from my giddy 
height, on the monsters of the deep at their uncouth 
gambols, — shoals of porpoises tumbling about the bow 
of the ship; the grampus, slowly heaving his huge form 
above the surface; or the ravenous shark, darting like a 
spectre through the blue waters. My imagination would 
conjure up all that I had heard or read of the watery 
world beneath me; of the finny herds that roam its 
fathomless valleys; of shapeless monsters that lurk 
among the very foundations of the earth; and of those 
wild phantasms that swell the tales of fishermen and 
sailors. 

Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the 
ocean, 'would be another theme of idle speculation. How 
interesting this fragment of a world hastening to rejoin 
the great mass of existence ! What a glorious monument 
of human invention, that has thus triumphed over wind 
and wave; has brought the ends of the earth in commun¬ 
ion ; has established an interchange of blessings, pouring 
into the sterile regions of the North all the luxuries of the 
South; diffused the light of knowledge and the charities 
of cultivated life ; and has thus bound together those 




THE VOYAGE. 


171 


scattered portions of the human race, between which na¬ 
ture seemed to have thrown an insurmountable barrier! 

We one day descried some shapeless object driftin-g at 
a distance. At sea, everything that breaks the monotony 
of the surrounding expanse attracts attention. It proved 
to be the mast of a sliip that must have been completely 
wrecked ) for there were the remains of handkerchiefs, 
by which some of the crew had fastened themselves to 
this spar, to prevent their being washed off by the waves. 
There was no trace by which the name of the ship could 
be ascertained. The wreck had evidently drifted about 
for many months; clusters of shell-fish had fastened about 
it, and long sea-weeds flaunted at its sides. But where, 
thought I, are the crew ? Their struggle has long been 
over; they have gone down amidst the roar of the tem¬ 
pest ; their bones lie whitening in the caverns of the deep. 
Silence, oblivion, like the waves, have closed over them, 
and no one can tell the story of their end. 

What sighs have been wafted after that ship! what 
prayers offered up at the deserted fireside of home! How 
often has the mistress, the wife, and the mother pored 
over the daily news to catch some casual intelligence of 
this rover of the deep! How has expectation darkened 
into anxiety, anxiety into dread, and dread into despair! 
Alas! not one memento shall ever return for love to 
clierish. All that shall ever be known is, that she sailed 
from her port, “ and was never heard of more.” 

The sight of the wreck, as usual, gave rise to many 
dismal anecdotes. , This was particularly the case in the 
evening, when the weather, which had hitherto been fair, 
began to look wild and threatening, and gave indications 
of one of those sudden storms that will sometimes break 
in upon the serenity of a summer voyage. As we sat 


172 


THE SIXTH READER. 


round the dull light of a lamp in the cabin, that made the 
gloom more ghastly, every one had his tale of shipwreck 
and disaster. I was particularly struck with a short one 
related by the captain. 

“ As I was once sailing,” said he, “ in a fine, stout 
ship, across the banks of Newfoundland, one of the heavy 
fogs, that prevail in those parts, rendered it impossible for 
me to see far ahead, even in tlie daytime; but at night 
the weather was so thick that we” could not distinguish 
any object at twice the length of our ship. I kept lights 
at the mast-head, and a constant watch forward to look 
out for fishing-smacks, which are accustomed to lie at 
anchor on the banks. The wind was blowing a smacking 
breeze, and we were going at a great rate through the 
water. Suddenly the watch gave the alarm of "a sail 
ahead ! ’ but it was scarcely, uttered till we were upon her. 
She was a small schooner at anchor, with her broadside 
towards us. The crew were all asleep, and had neglected 
to hoist a light. We struck her just amidships. The 
force, the size and weight of our vessel, bore her down 
below the waves; we passed over her, and were hurried 
on our course. 

“ As the crashing wreck was sinking beneath us, I liad 
a glimpse of two or three half-naked wretches rushing 
from her cabin; they had just started from their beds to 
be swallowed ^shrieking by 'the waves. I heard their 
drowning cry mingling with the wind. The blast that 
bore it to our ears swept us out of all further hearing. I 
shall never forget that cry ! It was some time before we 
could put the ship about, she was under such headway. 
We returned, as nearly as we could guess, to the place 
where the smack was anchored. We cruised about for 
several hours in the dense fog. We fired several guns. 


THE FALL OF POLAND. 


173 


and listened if we might hear the halloo of any survive 
01 ,’s; but all was silent, — we never heard nor saw any^ 
thing of them more 1 ” 

It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry of 
“land 1” was given from the mast-head. I question whether 
Columbus, when he discovered the New World, felt a more 
delicious throng of sensations, than rush into an Ameri¬ 
can’s bosom when he first comes in sight of Europe. There 
is a volume of associations in the very name. It is the 
land of promise, teeming with everything of which his 
childhood has heard, or on which his studious years have 
pondered. 

From that time until the period of arrival, it was 
all feverish excitement. The ships of war, that prowled 
like guardian giants around the coast; the headlands of 
Ireland, stretching out into tlie channel; the Welsh moun¬ 
tains, towering into the clouds,—aU were objects of intense 
interest. As we sailed up the Mersey, I reconnoitred the 
shores with a telescope. My eye dwelt with delight on 
neat cottages, with their trim shrubberies and green grass- 
plots. I saw the mouldering ruins of an abbey overrun 
with ivy, and the taper spire of a village church rising 
from the brow of a neighboring hill; all were character¬ 
istic of England. ^ 


XXL —THE FALL OF POLAND. 

CAMPBELL. 

The following extract is from the “ Pleasures of Hope.” The events which it 
commemorates took place in 1794. Warsaw was captured by the Russians in Novem¬ 
ber of that year. Kosciusko did not literally “fall,” that is, die, at that time. He 
was severely wounded and taken prisoner in a battle shortly before the capture of 
Warsaw, but he lived till 1817. “ Sarmatia ” is used poetically for Poland, being the 



174 


THE SIXTH READER. 


name by which the Romans designated that portion of Europe. “ Prague ” is Praga, 
a suburb of Warsaw, on the opposite side of the Vistula, and joined to the main city 
by a bridge of boats. 


SACRED Truth ! thy triumph ceased awhile, 



And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile. 

When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars 
Her whiskered pandoors * and her fierce hussars. 

Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn. 

Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet horn ; 
Tumultuous horror brooded o’er her van, 

• Presaging wrath to Poland — and to man ! 

Warsaw’s last champion from her heights surveyed. 

Wide o’er the fields, a waste of ruin laid. 

“ 0 Heaven ! ” he cried, “ my bleeding country save ! — 

Is there no hand on high to shield the brave ] 

Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains. 

Rise, fellow-men ! our country yet remains ! 

By that dread name, we wave the sword on high, 

And swear for her to live, •— with her to die ! ” 

He said, and on the rampart-heights arrayed 
His trusty w^arriors, few, but undismayed; 

Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form. 

Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm ; 

Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly, 

Revenge or death, — the watchword and reply; 

Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm, 

And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm ! — 

In vain, alas ! in vain, ye gallant few ! 

From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew : — 

0, bloodiest picture in the book of Time, 

Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime ; 

Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, 

* Pandoor.” One of a body of light infantry soldiers in the service of Aus¬ 
tria; so called because originally raised from the momitainous districts, near 
the village of Pandur, in Lower Hungary. 


THE FALL OF POLAND, 

Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe ! 

Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear, 
Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career : — 
Hope, -for a season, hade the world farewell. 

And freedom shrieked, — as Kosciusko fell! 

The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there, 
Tumultuous murder shook the midnight air, — 

On Prague’s proud arch the fires of ruin glow. 

His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below j 
The storm prevails, the rampart yields a way, 

Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay! 

Hark, as the smouldering piles with thunder fall, 

A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call! 

Earth shook, — red meteors flashed along the sky. 
And conscious Nature shuddered at the cry! 

0 righteous Heaven! ere Freedom found a grave, 
Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save % 

Where was thine arm, 0 Vengeance ! where thy rod. 
That smote the foes of Zion and of God; 

That crushed proud Ammon, when his iron car 
Was yoked in wrath, and thundered from afar? 
Where was the storm that slumbered till the host 
Of blood-stained Pharaoh left their trembling coast. 
Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow. 

And heaved an ocean on their march below % 

Departed spirits of the mighty dead ! 

Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled! 

Friends of the world ! restore your swords to man. 
Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van! 

Yet for Sarmatia’s tears of bipod atone. 

And make her arm puissant as your own ! 

0, once again to Freedom’s cause return 
The patriot Tell, — the Bruce of Bannockburn ! 

Ye fond adorers of departed fame. 

Who warm at Scipio’s worth or Tully’s name! 


176 


THE SIXTH READER. 


Ye that, in fancied vision, can admire ^ 

The sword of Brutus and the Theban lyre ! * ^ 

it: 

Bapt in historic ardor, who adore 

Each classic haunt and well-rememhered shore. 

Where valor tuned, amidst her chosen throng. 

The Thracian trumpet and the Spartan song; 

Or, wandering thence, behold the later charms 
Of England’s glory, and Helvetia’s arms! 

See Eoman fire in Hampden’s bosom swell. 

And fate and freedom in the shaft of Tell! 

Say, ye fond zealots to the worth of yore. 

Hath Valor left the world — to live no more] 

No more shall Brutus bid a tyrant die, 

And sternly smile with vengeance in his eye ] 

Hampden no more, when suffering Freedom calls, 
Encounter Fate, and triumph as he falls ] 

Nor Tell disclose, through peril and alarm. 

The might that slumbers in a peasant’s arm ] 

Yes, in that generous cause, forever strong. 

The patriot’s virtue and the poet’s song. 

Still, as the tide of ages rolls away. 

Shall charm the world, unconscious of decay. 

Yes, there are hearts, prophetic Hope may trust. 

That slumber yet in uncreated dust. 

Ordained to fire the adoring sons of earth, ' 

With every charm of wisdom and of worth; 

Ordained to light with intellectual day. 

The mazy wheels of nature as they play. 

Or, warm with Fancy’s energy, to glow, 

And rival all hut Shakespeare’s name below. 

* “The Tlieban lyre.” The poetry of Pindar, a celebrated Ijvic poet, 
bom in Thebes. 


OPPOSITION TO INDEPENDENCE. 


177 


XXII. — OPPOSITION TO INDEPENDENCE. 

WEBSTER. 

This lesson and that which succeeds it are both taken from Mr. Webster’s “ Eulogy 
on Adams and Jefferson,” delivered in Faneuil Hall, Boston, August 2, 1826. The 
first speech presents such arguments as might have been urged against the declaration 
of the independence of the Colonies, by a man of timid and desponding temperament; 
and the views of bolder and far-seeing statesmen are uttered by the lips of Mr. Ad¬ 
ams. Manj'^ persons have supposed that the speech put into the mouth of Mr. Adams 
was reaUy delivered by him, but this is not the case. It was written by Mr. Webster. 

L et us pause! This step, once taken, cannot be re¬ 
traced. This resolution, once passed, will cut off all 
hope of reconciliation. If success attend the arms of 
England, we shall then be no longer Colonies, witli char¬ 
ters and with privileges; these will all be forfeited by 
this act; and we shall be in the condition of other con¬ 
quered people, at the mercy of the conquerors. 

For ourselves, we may be ready to run the hazard; but 
are we ready to carry the country to that length ? Is 
success so probable as to justify it ? Where is the milir 
tary, where the naval power, by which we are to resist 
the whole strength of the arm of England; for she will 
exert that strength to the utmost ? Can we rely on the 
constancy and perseverance of the people ? or will they 
not act as the people of other countries have acted, and, 
wearied with a long war, submit, in the end, to a wmrse 
oppression ? While we stand on our old ground and 
insist on redress of grievances, w^e know we are right and 
are not answerable for consequences. Nothing, then, can 
be imputed to us. 

But if we now change our object, carry our pretensions 
further, and set up for absolute independence, we shall 
lose the sympathy of mankind. We shall no longer be 
defending what we possess, but struggling for something 



178 


THE SIXTH READER. 


which we never did possess, and which we have solemnly 
and uniformly disclaimed all intention of pursuing, from 
the very outset of the troubles. Abandoning thus our old 
ground, of resistance only to arbitrary acts of oppression, 
the nations will believe the whole to have been mere 
pretence, and they will look on us, not as injured, but as 
ambitious, subjects. I shudder before this responsibility. 

It will be on us, if, relinquishing tlie ground we have 
stood on so long, and stood on so safely, we now proclaim 
independence, and carry on the war for that object, while 
these cities burn, these pleasant fields whiten and bleach 
wfith the bones of their owners, and these streams run 
blood. It will be upon us, it will be upon us, if, failing 
to maintain this unseasonable and dll-judged declaration, 
a sterner despotism, maintained by military power, shall 
be established over our posterity, wlien we ourselves, given 
up by an exhausted, a harassed, a misled people, shall 
have expiated our rashness and atoned for our presump¬ 
tion on the scaffold. 


XXIIL —ME. ADAMS’S EEPLY. 



IXK or swim, live or die, survive or perish, I give my 


kJ hand and my heart to this vote. It is true, indeed, 
that in the beginning we aimed not at Independence. But 
there’s a divinity which shapes our ends. The injustice 
of England has driven us to arms; and, blinded to her 
own interest for our good, she has obstinately persisted, 
till independence is now within our grasp. We have but 
to reach fortli ,to it, and it is ours. Why, then, should 
we defer the declaration ? 



179 


\ 

V - 

V 

MR. ADAMSES REPLY. 

Is any man so weak as now to hope for a reconciliation 
with England, which shall leave either safety to the 
country and its liberties, or safety to his own life and his 
own honor ? Are not you, sir, who sit in that chair, is 
not he, our venerable colleague near you, are you not both 
already the proscribed and predestined objects of punish¬ 
ment and of vengeance ? Cut off from all hope of royal 
clemency, what are you, what can you be, wliile the 
power of England remains, but outlaws ? If we postpone 
independence, do we mean to carry on or to give up the 
war ? Do we mean to submit to the measures of Parlia¬ 
ment, Boston Port Bill and all ? Do we mean to submit, 
' and consent that we ourselves shall be ground to powder, 
and our country and its rights trodden down in the dust ? 

I know we do not mean to submit. We never shall 
submit. Do we intend to violate that most solemn obli¬ 
gation ever entered into by men, that plighting, before 
God, of our sacred honor to Washington, when, putting 
him forth to incur the dahgers of war, as well as the 
political hazards of the times, we promised to adhere to 
him, in every extremity, with our fortunes and our lives ? 
I know there is not a man here, who would not rather see 
a general conflagration sweep over the land, or an earth¬ 
quake sink it, than one jot or tittle of that plighted faith 
fall to the ground. For myself, having, twelve months 
ago, in this place, moved you, that George Washington be 
appointed commander of the forces .raised, or to be raised, 
for defence of American liberty, may my right hand for¬ 
get her cunning, and my tongue cleave to the roof of my 
mouth, if I hesitate or waver in the support I give him. 

The war, tlien, must go on. We must fight it through. 
And if the war must go on, why put off longer the decla¬ 
ration of independence ? That measure will strengthen 


180 


THE SIXTH READER. 


us. It will give us character abroad. The nations will 
then treat with us, which they never can do while we 
acknowledge ourselves subjects in arms against our sov¬ 
ereign. Nay, I maintain that England herself will sooner 
treat for peace with us on the footing of independence, 
than consent, by repealing her acts, to acknowledge that 
her whole conduct toward us has been a course of injus¬ 
tice and oppression. 

Her pride will be less wounded by submitting to that 
course of things which now predestinates our indepen¬ 
dence, than by yielding the points in controversy to her 
rebellious subjects. The former she would regard as tlie 
result of fortune; the latter she would feel as her own 
deep disgrace. Why then, why then, sir, do we not as 
soon as possible change this from a civil to a national 
war ? And since we must fight it through, why not put 
ourselves in a state to enjoy all the benefits of victory, if 
we gain the victory ? 

If we fail, it can be no worse for us. But we shall not 
fail. The cause will raise up armies; the cause will create 
navies. The people, the people, if we are true to them, 
will carry us, and will carry themselves, gloriously, through 
this struggle. I care not how fickle other people have 
been found. I know the people of these Colonies, and I 
know that resistance to British aggression is deep and 
settled in their hearts, and cannot be eradicated. Every 
Colony, indeed, has expressed its willingness to follow, if 
w^e but take the lead. 

Sir, the declaration will inspire the people with in¬ 
creased courage. Instead of a long and bloody war for 
the restoration of privileges, for redress of grievances, for 
chartered immunities held under a British kin" set be- 
fore them the glorious object of entire independence, and 


MR. ADAMS’S REPLY. 


181 - 


it will breathe into them anew the breath of life. Eead 
this declaration at the head of the army; every sword will 
be drawn from its scabbard, and the solemn vow uttered, 
to maintain it, or to perish on the bed of honor. Publish 
it from the pulpit; religion will approve it, and the love 
of religious liberty will cling round it, resolved to stand 
with it, or fall with it. Send it to the public halls; pro¬ 
claim it there; let them hear it who heard the first roar 
of the enemy’s cannon; let them see it who saw their 
brothers and their sons fall on the field of Bunker Hill, 
and in the streets of Lexington and Concord, and the very 
walls will cry out in its support. 

Sir, I know the uncertainty of human affairs, but I see, 
I see clearly through this day’s'business. You and I, 
indeed, may rue it. We may not live to the time when 
this declaration shall be made good. We may die; die 
colonists; die slaves; die, it may be, ignominiously, and 
on the scaffold. Be it so.' Be it so. If it be the pleasure 
of Heaven that my country shall require the poor offering 
of my life, the victim shall be ready, at the appointed 
hour of sacrifice, come when that hour may. But while 
I do live, let me have a country, or at least the hope of a 
country, and that a free country. 

But whatever may be our fate, be assured, be assured 
that this declaration will stand. It may cost treasure, 
and it may cost blood; but it will stand, and it will 
richly compensate for both. Through the thick gloom of 
the present, I see the brightness of the future as the sun 
in heaven. We shall make this a glorious, an immortal 
day. When we are in our graves, our children will honor 
it. They will celebrate it with thanksgiving, with festiv- 
itv, with bonfires and illuminations. On its annual re- 
turn, they will shed tears, copious, gushing tears, not of 


182 


THE SIXTH READER. 


subjection and slavery, not of agony and distress, but of 
exultation, of gratitude, and of joy. 

Sir, before God, I believe the hour is come. My judg¬ 
ment approves this measure, and my whole heart is in it. 
All that I have, and all that I am, and all that I hope in 
this life, I am now ready here to stake upon it; and I 
leave off as I began, that, live or die, survive or perish, I 
am for the declaration. It is my living sentiment, and 
by the blessing of God it shall be my dying sentiment, — 
independence now, and independence forever ! 




XXIV. — YOUTH. 


T his is our morning; in the way before us 
Its golden light is falling bright and fair; 

Xo clearer sky than that now bending o’er us 
E’er waked a longing for a dwelling there. 

We start together : yet how far diverging 
Our individual paths of life will be ! 

Each her own scheme will be intently urging, 

Each working out her separate destiny. 

As some fair landscape, stretching in the distance, 
We look at life through eyes unused to tears. 

And yet not knowing whether our existence 
Shall cease in youth, or be prolonged through years; 

Whether, ere noontide, everything we cherish 
Shall fade before us into less than air. 

And we, disheartened, lay us down to perish. 

The Star of Hope extinguished in despair. 



YOUTH, 


183 


Or, at the evening hours, our sun, descending 
"With gathering glory to the peaceful west. 

Shall, as our well-wrought work is near its ending, 
Behold us waiting for the promised rest. 

Who knows the future ] Who has turned its pages. 
Beading its secrets with divining power 1 
We may look backward through the reach of ages; 
We can look forward not a single hour. 

Yet without fear, without one dark misgiving. 

May we press onward with alacrity, 

Hoping and trustful; only this believing, — 

That as our purpose our reward shall he. 

Then will the light that dwells in heavenly places, 
Flooding with joy a world beyond our gaze. 

Before whose brightness angels veiled their faces, 
Shine with sweet influence upon all our ways. 

We shall experience peace ; and when life/s river 
Forgets to flow, — through the Omnipotent will, — 
When on its hanks the sunbeams cease to quiver 
And deepening shadows settle dark and still ) 

Through the increasing dimness will our vision 
To the perception of true life arise; 

We shall catch glimpses of the land Elysian, 

We shall see morning break in Paradise. 


184 


THE SIXTH RE A DEB. 


XXV. — ETERNITY OF GOD. 


GREENWOOD. 


Francis William Pitt Greenwood was born in Boston, February 5, 1797, was 
graduated at Harvard College in 1814, and settled in 1818 as pastor over the New South 
Church, in Boston. But he was soon obliged to leave this post of duty, on account 
of his failing health. In 1824 he was settled as colleague to the late Dr. Freeman, 
over the church worshipping in King’s Chapel. He died August 2, 1843. He was a 
man of rare purity of life, who preached the gospel by his works as well as his words. 
His manner in the pulpit was simple, impressive, and winning j and his sermons were 
deeply imbued with true religious feeling. His style was beautifully transparent 
and graceful, revealing a poetical imagination under the control of a pure taste. He 
was a frequent contributor to the “ North American Review and the Christian 
Examiner,” and for a time was one of the editors of the latter periodical' A volume 
entitled “ Sermons of Consolation ” appeared during his lifetime, and a selection from 
his sermons, with an introductory memoir, was published after his death. 

Dr. Greenwood was an attentive student of natural history, and was an accurate 
observer of nature, with remarkable powers of description. Some of his lighter pro¬ 
ductions, contributed to the gift annuals of the day, have great merit as vivid and 
picturesque delineations of natural scenes and objects. The following extract is from 
one of his sermons. 


E receive siicli repeated intimations of decay in 



V V the world through which we are passing, — de¬ 
cline and change and loss follow decline and change 
and loss in such rapid succession, — that we can almost 
catch the sound of universal wasting, and hear the work 
of desolation going on busily around us. “ The mountain 
falling cometh to naught, and the rock is removed out of 
his place. The waters wear the stones, the things which 
grow out of the dust of the earth are washed away, and 
the hope of man is destroyed.” 

Conscious of our own instability, we look about for 
something to rest on; but we look in vain. The heavens 
and the earth had a beginning, and they will have an end. 
The face of the world is changing daily and hourly. All 
animated things grow old and die. The rocks crumble, 
the trees fall, the leaves fade, and the grass withers. 
The clouds are flying, and the waters are flowing, away 
from us. 


ETERNITY OF GOD. 


185 


The firmest works of man, too, are gradually giving 
way. The ivy clings to the mouldering tower, the brier 
hangs out from the shattered window, and the wall-flower 
springs from the disjointed stones. The founders of these 
perishable works have shared the same fate, long ago. 
If we look back to the days of our ancestors, to the men 
as well as the dwellings of former times, they become 
immediately associated in our imaginations, and only 
make the feeling of instability stronger and deeper than 
before. 

In the spacious domes which once held our fathers, the 
serpent hisses and the wild bird screams. The halls which 
once were crowded with all that taste and science and 
labor could procure, which resounded with melody and 
were lighted up with beauty, are buried by their own 
ruins, mocked by their own desolation. The voice of mer¬ 
riment and of wailing, the steps of the busy and the idle, 
have ceased in the deserted courts, and the weeds choke 
the entrances, and the long grass waves upon the hearth¬ 
stone. The works of art, the forming hand, the tombs, 
the very ashes they contained, are all gone. 

While we thus walk among the ruins of the past, a sad 
feeling of insecurity comes over us; and that feehng is by 
no means diminished when we arrive at home. If w^e 
turn to our friends, we can hardly speak to them before 
they bid us farewell. We see them for a few moments, 
and in a few moments more their countenances are 
changed, and they are sent away. It matters not how 
near and dear they are. The ties which bind us together 
are never too close to be parted, or too strong to be 
broken. Tears were never known to move the king of 
terrors, neither is it enough that we are compelled to sur¬ 
render one, or two, or many, of those we love; for though 


186 


THE SIXTH READER. 


the price is so great, we buy no favor with it, and our 
hold on those who remain is as slight as ever. The shad¬ 
ows all elude our grasp, and follow one another down the 
valley. 

We gain no confidence, then, no feeling of security, by 
turning to our contemporaries and kindred. We know 
that the forms which are breathing around us are as 
short-lived and fleeting as those were which have been 
dust for centuries. The sensation of vanity, uncertainty, 
and ruin is equally strong, whether we muse on what has 
long been prostrate, or gaze on what is falling now or will 
fall so soon. 

If everything which comes under our notice has en¬ 
dured for so short a time, and in so short a time will be 
no more, we cannot say that we receive the least assur¬ 
ance by thinking on ourselves. When they, on whose 
fate we have been meditating, were engaged in the active 
scenes of life, as full of health and hope as we are now, 
what were wo ? We had no knowledge, no conscious¬ 
ness, no being; there was not a single thing in the wide 
universe which knew us. And after the same interval 
shall have elapsed, which now divides their days from 
ours, what shall we be ? What they are now. 

When a few more friends have left, a few more hopes 
deceived, and a few more changes mocked us, “ we shall 
be* brought to the grave, and shall remain in the tomb: 
the clods of the valley shall be sweet unto us, and every 
man shall follow us, as there are innumerable before us.” 
All power will have forsaken the strongest, and the lofti¬ 
est will be laid low, and every eye will be closed, and 
every voice hushed, and every heart will have ceased its 
beating. And when we have gone ourselves, even our 
memories will not stay behind us long. A few of the 



ETERNITY OF GOD. 


187 


near and dear will bear our likeness in their bosoms, till 
they too have arrived at the end of their journey, and en¬ 
tered the dark dwelling of unconsciousness. 

In the thoughts of others we shall live only till the last 
sound of the bell, which informs them of our departure, 
has ceased to vibrate in their ears. A stone, perhaps, may 
tell some wanderer where we lie, when we came here, and 
when we went away; but even that will soon refuse to 
bear us record. “ Time’s effacing fingers ” will be busy on 
its surface, and at length will wear it smooth; and then 
the stone itself will sink or crumble, and the wanderer 
of another age will pass, without a single call upon his 
sympathy, over our unheeded graves. 

Is there nothing to counteract the sinking of the heart 
which must be the effect of observations like these ? Can 
no support be offered ? Can no source of confidence be 
named? 0 yes! there is one Being, to whom we can 
look with a perfect conviction of finding that security 
which nothing about us can give, and which nothing about 
us can take away. 

To this Being we can lift up our souls, and on him we 
may rest them, exclaiming in the language of the monarch 
of Israel, “ Before the mountains were brought forth, or 
ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from 
everlasting to everlasting, thou art God I ” “ Of old hast 

thou laid the foundations of the earth, and the heavens 
are the work of thy hands. They shall perish, but thou 
shalt endure; yea, all of them shall wax old like a gar¬ 
ment ; as a vesture shalt thou change them, and they shall 
be changed; but thou art the same, and thy years shall 
have no end.” 

Here, then, is a support which will never fail; here is 
a foundation which can never be moved, — the everlast- 


188 


THE SIXTH READER. 


ing Creator of countless worlds, the high and lofty One 
that inhabiteth eternity.” What a sublime conception! 
He inhabits eternity, occupies this inconceivable duration, 
pervades and fills throughout this boundless dwelling. 

The contemplation of this glorious attribute of God is 
fitted to excite in our minds the most animating and con¬ 
soling reflections. Standing as we are amid the ruins of 
time and the wrecks of mortality, where everything about 
us is created and dependent, proceeding from nothing, and 
hastening to destruction, we rejoice that something is pre¬ 
sented to our view which has stood from everlasting, and 
will remain forever. We can look to the throne of God: 
change and decay have never reached that; the revolu¬ 
tion of ages has never moved it; the waves of an eternity 
have been rushing past it, but it has remained unshaken; 
the waves of another eternity are rushing towards it, but 
it is fixed, and can never be disturbed. 



XXVI. —THE GOOD GEEAT MAX. 


COLERIDGE. 


Samuel Taylor Coleridge was born at Ottery St. Mary, in Devonshire, England, 
October 21,1772 ; and died July 25,1834. He was one of the most remarkable men of 
his time ; and few writers have exerted a wider and deeper intellectual influence than 
he. His influence, too, is most felt by minds of the highest class. He was an origi¬ 
nal and imaginative poet, a profound and suggestive philosophical writer, and a critic 
of unrivalled excellence. His works are somewhat fragmentary in their character, for 
he wanted patience in intellectual construction ; but they are the fragments of a noble 
edifice. In conversational eloquence he is said to have excelled all his contempora¬ 
ries. 

Coleridge’s life was not in all respects what the admirers of his genius could have 
wished. His great defect was a want of will. He could see the right, but not always 
go to it: he could see the wrong, but not always go from it. 


H OW seldom, friend, a good great man inherits 

Honor or wealth, with all his worth and pains ! 



SLAVERY. 


189 


It sounds like stories from the land of spirits, 

If any man obtain that which he merits, 

Or any merit tliat which he obtains. 

For shame, dear friend ; renounce this canting strain. 
What wouldst thou have a good great man obtain ] 

Place, titles, salary, a gilded chain, — 

Or throne of corses which his sword hath slain ? 

Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends. 

Hath he not always treasures, always friends. 

The good great man % three treasures, — love and light. 
And calm thoughts, regular as infants’ breath ; 

And three firm friends, more sure than day and night, — 
Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death. 


■*<>•■ 


XXVII. — SLAVERY. 

COWPER. 

William Cowper was born at Berkhampstead, in Hertfordshire, England, Novem¬ 
ber 2G, 1731 ; and died April 25, 1800. He was of an extremely delicate and sensitive 
organization ; and he had the misfortune, when only six years old, to lose an affection¬ 
ate mother, whom he has commemorated in one of the most popular and beautiful of 
his i)oems. He was educated at Westminster School, where his gentle nature suffered 
much at the hands of older and rougher lads. He spent some time in the study of the 
law, and was called to the bar ; but his morbid temperament was found unequal to 
the discharge of professional and official duties. He declined the struggles and the 
prizes of an active career, and retired into the country, to a life of seclusion ; living 
for many years in the family of Mr. Unwin, an English clergyman. His fii'st volume 
of poems, containing “Table Talk,” “Hope,” “ The Progress of Error,” “Charity,” 
etc., was published in 1782, when he was fifty-one years old. It rarely happens that a 
poet’s first appearance is so late in life. This volume did not attract much attention. 
But in 1784 he published “ The Task,” which was received with much more favor. 
Its vigorous and manly style, its energetic moral tone, and its charming pictures of 
natural scenery and domestic life, were soon appreciated, although the general taste 
at that time preferred a more artificial style of poetry. After the publication of “ The 
Task,” he spent some years upon a translation of Homer into blank verse, published 
in 1791. 

Many of Cowper’s smaller pieces still enjoy great and deserved popularity. Like 
many men of habitual melancholy, he had a vein of humor running through his 



190 


THE SIXTH READER. 


nature. His “John Gilpin ” is a well-known instance of this ; and the same quality 
throws a frequent charm over his correspondence. Cowper’s life is full of deep and 
sad interest. His mind was more than once eclipsed by insanity, and often darkenfed 
by melancholy. He had tender and loving friends, who watched over him with aifec. 
tionate and untiring interest. His most intimate friendships wei’e with women ; and 
there is a striking contrast between the masculine vigor of his style and his feminine 
habits and manner of life. 

His letters are perhaps the best in the language. They are not superior, as intel¬ 
lectual efforts, to those of Gray, Walpole, Byron, or Scott; but they have in the 
highest degree that conversational ease and playful grace which we most desire in 
this class of writings. They are not epistolary essays, but genuine letters, — the un¬ 
studied effusions of the heart, meant for no eye but that of the person to whom they 
are addressed. Cowper’s life has been written, and his poems and prose writings 
edited, by Southey ; and they form a work of great interest and permanent value in 
literature. 


O rOR a lodge in some vast wilderness, 
Some boundless contiguity of shade, 
Where rumor of oppression and deceit. 

Of unsuccessful or successful war. 

Might never reach me more ! My ear is pained. 
My soul is sick, with every day’s report 
Of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled. 
There is no flesh in man’s obdurate heart, 

It does not feel for man ; the natural bond 
Of brotherhood is severed as the flax 
That falls asunder at the touch of fire. 

He finds his fellow guilty of a skin 
Not colored like his own; and having power 
To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause 
Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. 
Lands intersected by a narrow frith 
Abhor each other. Mountains interposed 
Make enemies of nations, who had else 
Like kindred drops been melted into one. 

Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys ; 
And, worse than all, and most to be deplored. 

As human nature’s broadest, foulest blot, 

Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat 
With stripes that Mercy, with a bleeding heart. 


PEARL AT PLAY. 


191 


Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. 

Then what is man ? And what man, seeing tliis, 
And having human feelings, does not blush. 

And hang his head, to think himself a man 1 
I would not have a slave to till my ground. 

To carry me, to fan me while I sleep. 

And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth 
That sinews bought and sold have ever earned. 
Ko : dear as freedom is, and in my heart’s 
Just estimation prized above all price, 

I had much rather be myself the slave. 

And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. 
We have no slaves at home, — then why abroad 'I 
And they themselves once ferried o’er the wave 
That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. 

Slaves cannot breathe in England ; if their lungs 
Eeceive our air, that moment they are free ; 

They touch our country, and their shackles fall. 
That’s noble, and bespeaks a nation proud 
And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then. 

And let it circulate through every vein 

Of all your empire ; that where Britain’s power 

Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. 




XXVIII. — PEAEL AT PLAY. 

HAWTHORNE. 

Nathaniel Hawthorne, an American novelist, was born in Salem, July 4,1804; 
and died May 19, 1864. He was graduated at Bowdoin College in 1825. He is the 
author of “The Scarlet Letter,” “The Blithedale Romance,” “The House of the 
Seven Gables,” " Our Old Home,” — a collection of sketches of the scenery and man¬ 
ners of England, where he resided for some years as United States Consul at Liver¬ 
pool,— “The Marble Faun,” of "Twice-Told Tales,” “Mosses from an Old Manse,” 
“ The Snow Image, and other Twice-Told Tales,” the last three being collections of 
papers contributed to various pei'iodicals. He has also written three or four books 




192 


THE SIXTH READER 


for children. Since his death, six volumes have been published containing extracts 
from his Note-Books in America, England, and Italy. 

Hawthorne was a man of peculiarly original genius, and no writer of our time was 
less indebted to the thoughts and words of other men than he. Reserved in his tem¬ 
perament and secluded in his habits, his mind grew by a self-contained law of in¬ 
crease. He combined a rare imaginative faculty with a vein of deep, often mournful, 
reflection. He had an unequal power of moving in that twilight region which lies 
between the real and the unreal, and of so clearing up his mysteries as still to leave 
the shadow of doubt resting upon them. He was a fine and sharp observer, and 
painted character with admirable discrimination and effect. His scenes and incidents 
are mostly drawn from the history and life of New England ; and it is a proof of no 
common genius in him to have found the elements of romantic interest in a soil gen¬ 
erally deemed unpropitious to such growth. His popularity is great, and probably 
would be greater were it not for the frequent intrusion into his pages of dark and sad 
visions, which fascinate but do not charm. 

Hawthorne’s style is of rare beauty and finish ; he ^vrites with perfect correctness ; 
hardly any living writer, English or American, is equal to him in this respect, and 
yet without any stiffness or appearance of elaboration. The music of his delicious 
cadences never palls upon the ear, because it is always natural and never monotonous. 
He has a poet’s sense of beauty, and his descriptions of natural scenes have all the 
elements of poetry except the garb of verse. 

The following extract is from “The Scarlet Letter,” one of his most original and 
powerful productions, and of deep and painful interest. 

H ESTEE PEYNNE went, one day, to the mansion 
of Governor Bellingham. This was a large wooden 
house, built in a fashion of which there are specimens 
still extant in the streets of our elder towns ; now moss- 
grown, crumbling to decay, and melancholy at heart, with 
the many sorrowful or joyful occurrences, remembered or 
forgotten, that have happened and passed away within 
their dusky chambers. Then, however, there was the 
freshness of the passing year on its exterior, and the 
cheerfulness gleaming forth from the ' sunny windows 
of a human habitation, into which death had never 
entered. 

It had, indeed, a very cheery aspect; the walls being 
overspread with a kind of stucco, in which fragments of 
broken glass were plentifully intermixed, so that, when 
the sunshine fell aslantwise over the front of the edifice, 
it glittered and sparkled as if diamonds had been flung 


V. 


U 

PEARL AT PLAY. 193 

^ O ' ' ' ^ 

against it by the double handful The brilliancy might 
have befitted Aladdin’s palace, rather than the mansion 
of a grave old Puritan ruler. 

Pearl, looking at this bright wonder of a house, began 
to caper and dance, and imperatively required that the 
whole breadth of sunshine should be stripped off its front 
and given her to play with. 

“No, my little Pearl!” said her mother. “Thou 
must gather, thine own sunshine. I have none to give 
thee.” 

They approached the door, when they beheld the old 
physician, with a basket on one arm, and a staff in the 
other hand, stooping along the ground in quest of roots 
and herbs to concoct his medicines withal. 

Hester bade little Pearl run down to the margin of the 
water, and play with the shells and tangled sea-weed, 
until she should have talked awhile with yonder gatherer 
of herbs. 

So the child flew away like a bird; and, making bare 
her small feet, went pattering along the moist margin of 
the sea. Here and there she .came to a full stop, and 
peeped curiously into a pool, left by the retiring tide 
as a mirror for Pearl to see her face in. Forth peeped 
at her, out of the pool, with dark, glistening curls around 
her head, and an elf smile in her eyes, the image of a 
little maid, whom Pearl, having no other playmate, 
invited to take her hand and run a race with her. 

But the visionary little maid, on her part, beckoned 
likewise, as if to say, “ This is a better place 1 Come 
thou into the pool! ” And Pearl, stepping in, beheld her 
own white feet at the bottom; while, out of a still lower 
depth, came the gleam of a kind of fragmentary smile, 
floating to and fro on the agffated water. Soon finding, 


194 


THE SIXTH EEADEE 




however, that the image was unreal, she turned elsewhere 
for better pastime. 

She made little boats out of birch-l:»ark, and freis^hted 

^ O 

tliem with snail-shells, and sent out more ventures on the 






> 

1 ^ 



1 


I 





















































































PEARL AT FLAY. 


195 


mighty deep than any merchant in IS^ew England. But 
the larger part of them foundered near the shore. She 
seized a horseshoe by the tail, and made a prize of several 
five-fingers, and laid out a jelly-fish to melt in the warm 
sun. Then she took up the white foam, that streaked the 
line of the advancing tide, and threw it upon the breeze, 
scampering after it to catch the great snow-fiakes ere 
they fell. 

Perceiving' a flock of beach-birds that fed and fluttered 
along the shore, the naughty child picked up her apron 
full of pebbles, and, creeping from rock to rock after 
these small sea-fowl, displayed remarkable dexterity in 
pelting them. One little gray bird with a white breast. 
Pearl was almost sure, had been hit by a pebble and 
fluttered away with a broken wing. 

But then the elf child sighed and gave up her sport, 
because it grieved her to have done harm to a little being 
that was as wild as the sea-breeze, or as wild as Pearl 
herself. 

Her final employment was to gather sea-weed of vari¬ 
ous kinds, and make herself a scarf or mantle, and a 
head-dress, and thus assume the aspect of a little 
jjwmaid. 

^ Just then she heard her mother’s voice, and, flitting 
along as lightly as one of the little sea-birds, appeared 
before Hester, dancing and laughing. 

Tlie road homeward, after the two wayfarers had crossed 
from the peninsula to the mainland, was no other than 
a foot-path. It straggled onward into the mystery of the 
primeval forest. This hemmed it in narrowly, and stood 
black and dense on either side, and disclosed imperfect 
glimpses of the sky above. The day was chill and sombre. 
Overhead was a gay expanse of cloud, slightly stirred by 


196 


THE SIXTH READER. 


a breeze; so tliat a gleam of flickering sunshine might 
now and then be seen at its solitary play along the path. 
This flitting cheerfulness was always at the farther extrem¬ 
ity of some long vista through the forest. 

Mother/’ said little Pearl, “ the sunshine runs away 
and hides itself, because it is afraid of something. Now, 
see! There it is, playing, a good way off Stand you 
here, and let me run and catch it. I am but a child. It 
will not flee from me.” 

Eun away, child,” answered the mother, “ and catch 
it! It will soon be gone.” 

Pearl set forth at a great pace, and, as Hester smEed 
to perceive, did actually catch the sunshine, and stood 
laughing in the midst of it, all brightened by its splendor, 
and scintillating with the vivacity excited by rapid mo¬ 
tion. The light lingered about the lonely child as if glad 
of such a playmate, until her mother had drawn almost 
nigh enough to step into the magic circle, too. 

“ Come, my child,” said Hester, looking about her, 
“ we will sit down a little way within the wood, and rest 
ourselves.” 

They entered sufficiently deep into the wood to secure 
themselves from the observation of any casual passenger 
along the forest track. Here they seated themselves in a 
little dell, with a leaf-strewn bank rising gently on either 
side, and a brook flowing through the midst, over a bed 
of fallen leaves. Continually, as it stole onward, the 
streamlet kept up a babble, kind, quiet, soothing, but 
melancholy. 

0 brook! 0 foolish and tiresome little brook ! ” cried 
Pearl, after listening awhile to its talk. “ Why art thou 
so sad ? Pluck up a spirit, and do not be all the time 
sffihin" and murmuring.” 







^ /> 
u u / 









PJ5;^A‘L PLAY. 


197 


But the brook, in the course of its little lifetime among 
the forest trees, had gone through so solemn an expe¬ 
rience that it could not help talking about it, and seemed 
to have nothing else to say. Pearl resembled the brook, 
inasmuch as the current of her life had flowed through 
scenes shadowed as heavily with gloom. 

But, unlike the little stream, she danced and sparkled, 
and prattled airily along her course. There was no other 
attribute that so much impressed her mother with a sense 
of vigor in Pearl’s nature as her never-failing vivacity of 
spirits. It was a doubtful charm, imparting a hard, me¬ 
tallic lustre to the child’s character. She wanted •— what 
some people want throughout Jlife — a grief that should 
deeply touch her, and thus humanize and make her capa¬ 
ble of sympatliy. But there was time enough yet for 
little Pearl. 

What does this sad little brook say, mother ? ” in¬ 
quired she. 

“ If thou hadst sorrow of thine own, the brook might 

✓ 

tell thee of it,” answered her mother. ''How, Pearl, go 
and play. But do not’stray far into the wood. And take 
heed that thou come at my first call.” 

The cliild went singing away, following up the ciirrent 
of the brook, and striving to mingle a more lightsome 
cadence With its melancholy voice. But the little stream 
would not be comforted; and so Pearl chose to break off 
all acquaintance with it, and the great black forest became 
the playmate of the lonely infant, as well as it knew how. 
It offered her the partridge-berries, now red as drops of 
blood upon the withered leaves. These Pearl gathered, 
and was pleased with their wild flavor. The small deni¬ 
zens of the wilderness hardly took pains to move out of 
lier path. 


198 


THE SIXTH READER. 


A partridge, indeed, with a brood of ten behind her, 
ran forward threateningly, but soon repented her fierce¬ 
ness, and clucked to her young ones not to be afraid. A 
pigeon, alone on a low branch, allowed Pearl to come 
beneath, and uttered a sound, as much of greeting as 
alarm, A squirrel, from the lofty deptlis of his domestic 
tree, chattered, either in anger or merriment, — for a 
squirrel is such a choleric and humorous little personage 
that it is hard to distinguish between his moods, — and 
fiung down a nut upon her head. 

A fox, startled from his sleep by her light footstep on 
the leaves, looked inquisitively at Pearl, as doubting 
whether it were better tp steal off, or renew his nap on 
the same spot. The truth seems to be, that the mother- 
forest, and these wuld things which it nourished, all recog¬ 
nized a kindred wildness in the human child. 

And she Avas gentler here than in the grassy margined 
streets of the settlement, or in her mother’s cottage. The 
flowers seemed to know it; and one and another whis¬ 
pered, as she passed, '' Adorn thyself with me, thou beau¬ 
tiful child; adorn thyself Avith me ! ” and, to please them. 
Pearl gathered the violets, and anemones, and scarlet 
columbines, and some twigs of the freshest green, Avhich 
the old trees held doAvn before her eyes. Witli these she 
decorated her hair and waist, and became a nymph child 
or an infant dryad, when she heard her mother’s voice, and 
came slowly back. 


/ 


CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 


199 


XXIX. —CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 


TENNYSON. 


Alfred Tennyson, a living poet of England, was bom at Somersby, Lincolnshire, 
in 1810. He has inxblished two volumes of miscellaneous poetry ; also “ The Princess," 
a narrative, in blank verse; a volume called “ In Memoriam” ; “ Maud,” in which an 
unhappy love-story is told in a broken and fragmentary way; and “Idyls of the 
King,” comprising four poems founded on the legends of King Arthur. 

He is a man of rare and ’fine genius, whose poetry is addressed to refined and culti¬ 
vated minds. The music of his verse and Ids skill in the use of language are alike ex¬ 
cellent. He is a poet of poets; and, in general, is only fully appreciated by those 
who have something of the poetical faculty themselves. He is more valued by women 
than by men, and by young imen than by old. He is evidently a man of the finest 
organization, and his poetry is of the most exquisite and ethereal cast. He has an un¬ 
common power of presenting pictures to the eye, and often in a very few words. His 
pages are crowded with subjects for the artist. A portion of what he has written is 
rather remote from the beaten track of human sympathies and feelings; but that he 
can write popular poetry is shown by his well-known “May Queen.” 

His volume called “In Memoriam” is a very remarkable book. It is a collection 
of one hundred and twenty-nine short poems, written in a peculiar and uniform metre, 
which were called forth by the early death of Arthur Henry Ilallam, the eldest son of 
the historian, a young man of rare excellence of mind and character, the intimate 
friend of Tennyson, and betrothed to his sister. Such a book will not be welcome to 
all minds, nor to any mind at all ixeriods and in all moods ; but it contains some of the 
most exquisite poetry which has been written in our times, and some of the deepest 
and sweetest effusions of feeling to be found anywhere. 

The following spirited poem commemorates a gallant and desperate charge made by 
a brigade of English light-horse at the battle of Balaklava, in the Crimea, October 25, 
18-54, under circumstances that seemed to insure the destruction of the whole body. 
The order to charge was supposed to have been given under a mistake ; but nothing 
was ever distinctly known about it, as Captain Nolan, who delivered it, was the first 
man who fell. Of six hundred and thirty who started on the charge only a hundred 
and fifty returned. 



All in the valley of death 
Rode the six hundred. 


“ ForAvard, the Light Brigade ! 
Charge for the guns ! ” he said. 


V 


Into the valley of death 
Rode the six hundred. 


“ Forward the Light Brigade ! ” 
Was there a man dismayed 1 



200 


THE SIXTH READER. 




I 


Not though the soldiers knew 
Some one had blundered ; 

Theirs not to make reply, 

Theirs not to reason why, 

Theirs but to do and die : 

Into the valley of death 
Eode the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them. 

Cannon to left of them. 

Cannon in front of them. 

Volleyed and thundered : 
Stormed at with shot and shell. 
Boldly they rode and well; 

Into the jaws of death. 

Into the mouth of hell, 

Eode the six hundred. 

Flashed all their sabres bare. 
Flashed as they turned in air. 
Sabring the gunners tliere. 

Charging an army, while 
All the world wondered : 
Plunged in the battery smoke, 
Eiglit through the line they broke; 
Cossack and Eussian 
Eeeled from the sabre-stroke. 
Shattered and sundered. 

Then they rode back, but not. 

Not the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them. 

Cannon to left of them. 

Cannon behind them. 

Volleyed and thundered : 


k 


PERSONAL APPEARANCE OF WASHINGTON. 201 


Stormed at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell, 

They that had fought so well. 
Came through the jaws of death. 
Back from the mouth of hell, 

All that was left of them. 

Left of six hundred. 

When can their glory fade 1 
0, the wild charge they made ! 

All the Avorld wondered. 
Honor the charge they made ! 
Honor the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred! 


-•O#- 


XXX. — PEESOXAL APPEAEANCE AND CHAE- 
ACTEE OF WASHINGTON. 

REV. JARED SPARKS. 

Jared Sparks, an American historian and author, was born in Willington, Con¬ 
necticut, May 10, 1789 ; and died March 14, 1866. lie was first a Unitarian minister, 
and was settled in Baltimore from 1819 to 1823. In 1821 he was Chaplain to the House 
of Representatives. He edited the North American Review from 1823 to 1830. He is 
best known by his valuable contributions to American history, of which the principal 
are “The Life and Works of Washington,” in twelve volumes, and “The Life and 
Works of Franklin,” in ten volumes. He also wrote “The Life of John Ledyard,” 
“The Life of Governeur Morris,” in three volumes, edited “The Diplomatic Cor¬ 
respondence of the American Revolution,” several numbers of the “American Al¬ 
manac,” and “ The Library of American Biography,” in twenty-five volumes. He 
was McLaue Professor of History at Harvard College from 1839 to 1849, and President 
of this College from 1849 to 1852. His historical writings are remarkable for their 
judgment and good sense, for accuracy and thoroughness of research, and for an 
unadorned simplicity and correctness of style. 

T he person of Washington was commanding, grace¬ 
ful, and fitly proportioned; his stature six feet, his 
chest broad and full, his limbs long and somewdiat slen- 




202 


THE SIXTH READER. 


der, but well shaped and muscular. His features were 
regular and symmetrical, his eyes of a light blue color, 
and his whole countenance, in its quiet state, was grave, 
placid, and benignant. 

When alone, or not engaged in conversation, he ap¬ 
peared sedate and thoughtful; but, when his attention 
was excited, his eye kindled quickly and beamed with 
animation and intelligence. He was not fluent in speech, 
but what he said was apposite, and listened to with more 
interest as being known to come from the heart. He 
seldom attempted sallies of wit or humor, but no man 
received more pleasure from an exhibition of them by 
others; and, although contented in seclusion, he sought 
his chief happiness in society, and participated with de- 
hght in all its rational and innocent amusements. 

Without austerity on the one hand, or an appearance 
of condescending familiarity on the other, he was affable, 
courteous, and cheerful; but it has often been remarked, 
that there was a dignity in his person and manner, not 
easy to be defined, which impressed every one who saw 
him for the first time with an instinctive deference and 
awe. This may have arisen in part from a conviction of 
his superiority, as well as from the effect produced by 
his external form and deportment. 

His moral qualities were in perfect harmony with those 
of his intellect. Duty was the ruling principle of his 
conduct; and the rare endowments of his understanding 
were not more constantly tasked to devise the best meth¬ 
ods of effecting an object, than they were to guard the 
sanctity of conscience. 

No instance can be adduced, in which he was actuated 
by a sinister motive, or endeavored to attain an end 
by unworthy means. Truth, integrity, and justice were 


PERSONAL APPEARANCE OE WASHINGTON. 203 


deeply rooted in his mind; and nothing could rouse his 
indignation so soon, or so utterly destroy his confidence, 
as the discovery of the want of these virtues in any one 
whom he had trusted. Weaknesses, follies, indiscretions, 
he could forgive; but subterfuge and dishonesty he never 
forgot and rarely pardoned. 

He was candid and sincere, true to his friends, and 
faithful to all, neither practising dissimulation, descending 
to artifice, nor holding out expectations which he did not 
intend should be realized. His passions were strong, and 
sometimes they broke out with vehemence, but he had 
the power of checking them in an instant. Perhaps self- 
control was the most remarkable trait of his character. 
It was in part the effect of discipline; yet he seems by 
nature to have possessed this power to a degree which 
has been denied to other men. 

A Christian in faith and practice, he was habitually 
devout. His reverence for religion is seen in his exam¬ 
ple, his public communications, and his private writings. 
He uniformly ascribed his success to the beneficent 
agency of the Supreme Being. Charitable and liumane, 
he was liberal to the poor, and kind to those in distress. 
As a husband, son, and brother, he was tender and affec¬ 
tionate. Without vanity, ostentation, or pride, he never 
spoke of himself or his actions, unless required by cir¬ 
cumstances which concerned the public interests. 

As he was free from envy, so he had the good fortune 
to escape the envy of others, by standing on an elevation 
which none could hope to attain. If he had one passion 
stronger than another, it was love of his country. The 
purity and ardor of his patriotism were commensurate 
with the greatness of its object. Love of country in 
him w^as invested with the* sacred obligation of a duty; 



204 


THE SIXTH READER. 


and from the faithful discharge of this duty he never 
swerved for a moment, either in thought or deed, through 
the whole period of his eventful career. 


XXXT. — WASHINGTON’S GENIUS. 


E. P. WHIPPLE. 


Edwin Percy Whipple was born in Gloucester, Massachusetts, on the 8th of 
March, 1819. He has been for many years a resident of Boston. He is well known 
as a lyceum lecturer and a brilliant essayist. He has addressed various literary 
societies in a style of much beauty and power. His published works are remarkable 
for vigor of treatment and copious illustrations. They are as follows: “ Success 
and its Conditions,” “Literature and Life,” “Essays and Reviews,” two volumes, 
“ Character and Characteristic Men,” “ The Literature of the Age of Elizabeth.” In 
the year 1850, he delivered a Fourth of July oration before the city authorities of 
Boston, on the character of Washington. 


HE history, so sad and so glorious, which chronicles 



-L the stern struggle in which our rights and liberties 
passed through the awful baptism of fire and blood, is 
eloquent with the deeds of many patriots, warriors, and 
statesmen; but these all fall into relations to one prom¬ 
inent and commanding figure, towering above the whole 
group in unapproachable majesty, whose exalted char¬ 
acter, warm and bright, with every public and private 
virtue, and vital with the essential spirit of wisdom, has 
burst all sectional and national bounds, and made the 
name of Washington the property of all mankind. 

This illustrious man, at once the world’s admiration 
and enigma, we are taught by a fine instinct to venerate, 
and by a wrong opinion to misjudge. The might of his 
character has taken strong hold upon the feelings of great 
masses of men, but in translating this universal sentiment 
into an intelligent form, the intellectual element of his 
wonderful nature is as much depressed as the moral ele- 




WASHINGTON’S GENIUS. 


205 


ment is exalted, and consequently we are apt to misun¬ 
derstand both. Mediocrity has a bad trick of idealizing 
itself in eulogizing him, and drags him down to its own 
low level while assuming to lift him to the skies. 

How many times have we been told that he was not 
a man of genius, but'a person of “excellent common- 
sense,” of “admirable judgment,” of “ rare virtues”; and 
by a constant repetition of this odious cant we have nearly 
succeeded in divorcing comprehension from his sense, in¬ 
sight from his judgment, force from his virtues, and life 
from the man. Accordingly, in the panegyric of cold 
spirits, Washington disappears in a cloud of common¬ 
places ; in the rodomontade of boiling patriots he expires 
in the agonies of rant. 

The sooner this bundle of mediocre talents and moral 
qualities, which its contrivers have the audacity to call 
George Washington, is hissed out of existence, the better 
it will be for the cause of talent and the cause of morals: 
contempt of that is the beginning of wisdom. 

He had no genius, it seems. 0 no! genius, we must 
suppose, is the peculiar and shining attribute of some 
orator, whose tongue can spout patriotic speeches, or 
some versifier, whose muse can “Hail Columbia,” but 
not of the man who supported states on his arm, and 
carried America in his brain. The madcap Charles 
Townsend,* the motion of whose pyrotechnic mind was 
like the whiz of a hundred rockets, is a man of genius; 
but George Washington, raised up above the level of 
even eminent statesmen, and with a nature moving with 
the still and orderly celerity of a planet round its sun, 

* Charles Townsend entered Parliament in 1747- He held various high 
offices during his life. He supported the Stamp Act and the taxation of the 
American Colonies. He had great parliamentary abilities and oratorical 
powers. 




206 THE SIXTH READER. 

— he dwindles, in comparison, into a kind of angelic 
dunce! 

What is genius ? Is it worth anything ? Is splendid 
folly the measure of its inspiration ? Is wisdom its base 
and summit, — that which it recedes from, or tends to¬ 
wards ? And by what definition do you award the name 
to the creator of an epic, and deny it to the creator ol a 
country ? On what principle is it to be lavished on him 
who sculptures in perishing marble the image of^ possible 
excellence, and withheld from him who built up in him¬ 
self a transcendent character, indestructible aj- the obli¬ 
gations of Duty, and beautiful as her rewards ^ 



■•O*' 


XXXII. — PAUL REVEEE’S RIDE. 


L< )\V 


L ISTEIN, v cliildri! ..Hid you shall hear 
Of the niidniglit ri<ie of Paul Pevere, 
On the eightkuitli of A . in Seventy-Five \ 
Hardly a man is now alix e 
Who remembers that famous day and year. 


A 

lie said to his friend, — ‘‘If the British march 
By land or sea from the town to-night, 


Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-ai^h _ _ 

the North Chiirch tower, as a signal-light,- 


One if by land, and two if by sea ; 

And I on the opposite shore will be, 

Ready to ride and spread the alarm 
Through every Middlesex village and farm. 
For the country-folk to be up and to arm.” 



PAUL RE VERB’S RIDE. 


Then he said good night, and with muffled oar 
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, 

Just as the moon rose over the hay. 

Where swinging wide at her moorings lay 
The Somerset, British man-of-war : 

A phantom ship, with each mast and spar 
Across the moon, like a prison-bar. 

And a huge, black hulk, that was magnihed 
By its own reflection in the tide. 

Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street 
Wanders and watches with eager ears, f ) 


Till in the silence around him he hears 
The muster of men at the barrack-door. 

The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet. 
And the measured tread of the grenadiers 
Marching down tci^ilieir boats on the shore. 

- 

Then^ he climbed to the tower of the church. 
Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, 
To the belfry-chamber overhead. 

And startled the pigeons from their perch 
On the sombre rafters, that round him made 
Masses and moving shapes of shade, — 

Up the light ladder, slender and tall. 

To the highest window in the wall. 

Where he paused to listen and look down 
A moment on the roofs of the town. 

And the moonlight flowing over all. 

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead 
In their night-encampment on the hill. 
Wrapped in silence so deep and still. 

That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread. 
The watchful night-wind, as it went 
Creeping along from tent to tent. 



208 


THE SIXTH READER. 


And seeming to whisper, ‘‘ All is well! ” 

A moment only he feels the spell 

Of the place and the hour, the secret dread 

Of the lonely belfry and the dead ; 

For suddenly all his thoughts are bent 
On a shadowy something far away, 

Where the river widens to meet the hay, — 

A line of black, that bends and floats 
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. 

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride. 

Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride. 

On the opposite shore walked Paul Eevere. 

Now he patted his horse’s side, 

ISTow gazed on the landscape far and near, 

Then impetuous stamped the earth. 

And turned and tightened his saddle-girth ; 

But mostly he watched with eager search 
The belfry-tower of the old North Church, 

As it rose above the graves on the hill. 

Lonely, and spectral, and sombre, and still. 

And lo ! as he looks, on the belfry’s height, 

A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! 

He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns. 

But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight 
A second lamp in the belfry burns ! 

A hurry of hoofs in a village-street, 

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark. 

And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark 
Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet: 

That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light. 
The fate of a nation was riding that night; 

And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight. 
Kindled the land into flame with its heat. 


PAUL REVEEE’S RIDE. 


209 


It was twelve by the village-clock, 

When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. 
He heard the crowing of the cock, 

And the barking of the farmer’s dog. 





























210 


THE SIXTH READER. 


And felt the damp of the river-fog, 

That rises when the sun goes down. 

It was one by the village-clock, 

When he rode into Lexington. 

He saw the gilded weathercock 
Swim in the moonlight as he passed. 

And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, 
Gaze at him with a spectral glare, 

As if they already stood aghast 

At the bloody work they would look upon. 

It was two by the village-clock. 

When he came to the bridge in Concord town. 

He heard the bleating of the flock. 

And the twitter of birds among the trees, 

And felt the breath of the morning-breeze 
Blowing over the meadows brown. 

And one was safe and asleep in his bed 
Who at the bridge would be first to fall. 

Who that day would be lying dead. 

Pierced by a British musket-ball. 

You know the rest. In the books you have read 
How the British regulars fired and fled, — 

How the farmers gave them ball for ball. 

From behind each fence and farmyard-wall. 
Chasing the redcoats down the lane. 

Then crossing the fields to emerge again 
Under the trees at the turn of the road. 

And only pausing to fire and load. 

So through the night rode Paul Eevere; 

And so through the night went his cry of alarm 
To every Middlesex village and farm, — 


THE CHARACTER OF GRATTAN. 


211 


A cry of defiance, and not of fear, — 

A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door. 
And a word that shall echo forevermore ! 

For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, 
Through all our history, to the last, 

In the hour of darkness and peril and need. 
The people will waken and listen to hear 
The hurrying hoof-beat of that steed. 

And the midnight-message of Paul Eevere. 


XXXIII. —THE CHAEACTEE OF GEATTAN. 


SYDNEY SMITH. 


Sydney Smith, a clergyman of the Church of England, was born at Woodford, in 
the county of Essex, England, in 1771, and died in 1845. He was one of the founders 
of the “Edinburgh Review,” a periodical journal which has exerted, and is continu¬ 
ing to exert, so great an influence over the literature and politics of Great Britain ; 
and for many years he was a constant contributor to its pages. Among all the writers 
of his time, he is remarkable for his brilliant wit and rich vein of humor, which give 
a peculiar and pungent flavor to everything that falls from his pen. But his wit and 
humor rested upon a foundation of sound common-sense, and were always under the 
control of a warm and good heart. In reading him, we feel first that he is a wise 
man, and then a witty man. He was a courageous and consistent friend of civil and 
religious liberty ; and in the various articles which he contributed to the “Edinburgh 
Review,” on social and political reform, he shows the enlarged views of an enlight¬ 
ened statesman, and the benevolent feeling of a Christian philanthropist. 


HANK God that all is not profligacy and corruption 



-L in the history of that devoted people, and that 
the name of Irishman does not always carry with it the 
idea of tlie oppressor or the oppressed, the plunderer or 
the plundered, the tyrant or the slave. 

Great men hallow a whole people, and lift up all who 
live in their time. What Irishman does not feel proud 
that he has lived in the days of Grattan ? Who has not 
turned to him for comfort, from the false friends and open 
enemies of Ireland ? Who did not remember him in the 




212 


THE SIXTH READER. 


days of its burnings and wastings and murders ? No gov¬ 
ernment ever dismayed him, the world could not bribe 
him; he thought only of Ireland, lived for no other 
object, dedicated to her his beautiful fancy, his elegant 
wit, his manly courage, and all the splendor of his aston¬ 
ishing eloquence. 

He was so born and so gifted, that poetry, forensic 
skill, elegant literature, and all the highest attain¬ 
ments of human genius, were within his reach; but he 
thought the noblest occupation of a man was to make 
other men happy and free; and in that straight line he 
went on for fifty years, without one sidelook, without 
one yielding thought, without one motive in his heart 
which lie might not have laid open to the view of God 
and man. He is gone! — but there is not a single day 
of his honest life of which every good Irishman would 
not be more proud, than of the whole political existence 
of his countrymen, — the annual deserters and betrayers 
of their native land. 

-•<>•- 


XXXIY. — FINITE AND INFINITE. 

R. C. WINTHROP. 

Robert Charles Winthrop was born in Boston, May 12, 1809, and graduated at 
Harvard College in 1828. He was admitted to the bar in 1831, but never engaged in 
the practice of the profession. In 1834 he was elected to the House of Representatives 
of Massachusetts, and re-elected during five successive years, during the last three of 
which he served as Speaker. In the autumn of 1840 he was chosen to the House of 
Representatives in Congress, and continued a member of that body during the next 
ten years, with the exception of a brief interval. From December, 1847, to March, 
1849, he was Speaker of the House. In 1856 he served a short time in the Senate of 
the United States, by appointment of the governor of Massachusetts. During his 
public life Mr. Winthrop was a leading member of the Whig party. He spoke fre¬ 
quently upon the great questions of the day, and his speeches always commanded 
attention from their well-considered arguments and propriety of tone. A volume of 
his addresses and speeches was published in 1852, since which time he has published 
several lectures and imblic discourses. 




FINITE AND INFINITE. 


213 


ET men lift their vast reflectors or refractors to the 



skies, and detect new planets in their hiding-places. 
Let them waylay the fugitive comets in their flight, and 
compel them to disclose the precise period of their orbits, 
and to give bonds for their punctual return. Let them 
drag out reluctant satellites from “their liabitual con¬ 
cealments.” Let them resolve the unresolvable nebulae 
of Orion or Andromeda. They need not fear. The 
sky will not fall, nor a single star be shaken from its 


sphere. 


Let them perfect and elaborate their marvellous pro¬ 
cesses for making the light and the lightning their min¬ 
isters, for putting “ a pencil of rays ” into the hand of 
art, and providing tongues of fire for the communication 
of intelligence. Let them foretell the path of the whirl¬ 
wind, and calculate the orbit of the storm. Let them 
hang out their gigantic pendulums, and make the earth 
do the work of describing and measuring her own mo¬ 
tions. Let them annihilate human pain, and literally 
“charm ache with air, and agony with ether.” The 
blessing of God will attend all their toils, and the grati¬ 
tude of man will await all their triumphs. 

Let them dig down into the bowels of the earth. Let 
them rive asunder the massive rocks, and unfold the his¬ 
tory of creation as it lies written on the pages of their 
piled-up strata. Let them gather up the fossil fragments 
of a lost Fauna, reproducing the ancient forms which 
inhabited the land or the seas, bringing them together, 
bone to his bone, till Leviathan and Behemoth stand 
before us in bodily presence and in their full proportions, 
and we almost tremble lest these dry bones should live 
again ! Let them put Nature to the rack, and torture her, 
in all her forms, to the betrayal of her inmost secrets and 


214 


THE SIXTH READER. 


confidences. They need not forbear. The foundations of 
the round world have been laid so strong that they can¬ 
not be moved. 

But let them not think by searching to find out God. 
Let them not dream of understanding the Almighty to 
perfection. Let them not dare to apply their tests and 
solvents, their modes of analysis or their terms of defini¬ 
tion, to the secrets of the spiritual kingdom. Let them 
spare the foundations of faith. Let them be satisfied 
with what is revealed of the mysteries of the Divine 
Nature. Let them not break through the bounds to gaze 
after the Invisible, lest the day come when they shall 
be ready to cry to the mountains, Fall on us, and to the 
hills. Cover us. 

— 


XXXV. —THE NEW YEAR 

ALFRED TENNYSON. 

R ing out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
The flying cloud, the frosty light; 
The year is dying in the night; 

Eing out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Eing out the old, ring in the new; 

Eing, happy bells, across the snow; 

The year is going; let him go ; 

Eing out the false; ring in the true. 

Eing out the grief, that saps the mind. 

For those that here we see no more; 
Eing out the feud of rich and poor; 
Eing in redress to all mankind. 






THE REFORM THAT IS NEEDED. 


215 


King out a slowly dying cause, 

And ancient forms of party strife ; 

Eing in the nobler modes of life, 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Eing out the want, the care, the sin. 

The faithless coldness of the times; 

Eing out, ring out my mournful rhymes. 
But ring the fuller minstrel in. 

Eing out false pride in place and blood. 
The civic slander and the spite; 

Eing in the love of truth and right j 
Eing in the common love of good. 

Eing out old shapes of foul disease; 

Eing out the narrowing lust of gold ; 
Eing out the thousand wars of old, 

Eing in the thousand years of peace. 

Eing in the valiant man and free. 

The larger heart, the kindlier hand; 
Eing out the darkness of the land, 

Eing in the Christ that is to be. 




XXXVL —THE EEFOEM THAT IS HEEDED. 

BUSHNELL. 

Horace Bushnell, D. D., was born in Washington, Litchheld County, Conn., in 
1804, and was graduated at Yale College in 1827. In May, 1838, he was invited to be 
pastor of the North Congregational Church in Hartford, which position he still re¬ 
tains. Dr. Bushnell’s writings have been mainly on theological subjects, though hi 
his addresses before literary societies he has occasionally touched upon other themes. 
His productions are remarkable for their spiritual beauty and elevation of style, and 
an original method of treatment. He is an earnest thinker rather than a rhetorician. 




216 


THE SIXTH READER. 


I T is getting to be a great hope of our time, that society 
is about to slide into something better, by a course 
of natural progress, — by the advance of education, by 
great public reforms, by courses of self-culture, and phil¬ 
anthropic practice. We have a new gospel that corre¬ 
sponds, — a gospel which preaches not so much a faith in 
God’s salvation as a faith in human nature, — an atten¬ 
uated, moralizing gospel, that proposes development, not 
regeneration ; that shows men how to grow better, how 
to cultivate their amiable instincts, how to be rational 
in their own light, and govern themselves by theii* own 
power. 

Sometimes it is given as the true problem, how to 
reform the shape and reconstruct the style of their 
heads ! Alas, that we are taken, or can be, with so great 
folly ! How plain it is that no such gospel meets our 
want! What can it do for us but turn us away, more 
and more fatally, from that gospel of the Son of God 
which is our only hope ? Man, as a ruin, going after 
development and progress and philanthropy and social 
culture, and by this firefly glimmer, to make a day of 
glory! 

And this is the doctrine that proposes shortly to re¬ 
store society, to settle the passion, regenerate the affec¬ 
tion, reglorify the thought, fill the aspiration of a desiring 
and disjointed world. As if any being but God had power 
to grapple with these human disorders; as if man or 
society, crazed and maddened by the demoniacal frenzy of 
sin, were going to rebuild the state of order, and reconstruct 
the harmony of nature by such kind of desultory counsel 
and unsteady application as it can manage to enforce in 
its own cause ; going to do this miracle by its science, its 
compacts, and self-executed reforms ! 


OBLIGATIONS OF AMERICA TO ENGLAND. 217 

As soon will the desolations of Karnac gather up their 
fragments and reconstruct the proportions out of which 
they have fallen. No ; it is not progress, not reforms, 
that are wanted as any principal thing. Nothing meets 
our case, but to come unto God and he medicated in 
him; to be born of God, and so, by his regenerative 
power, to be set in heaven’s own order. He alone can 
rebuild the ruin, he alone set up the glorious temple of 
the mind, and those divine affinities in us that raven ^ 
with immortal hunger; he alone can satisfy thorn in the 
bestowment of himself! 




XXXVII. — OBLIGATIONS OF AMERICA TO 

ENGLAND, 

EVERETT. 

The following extract is from an oration delivered at Plymouth, December 22, 
1824. 

"TTT^HAT citizen of our Eepublic does not feel, what 
V V reflecting American does not acknowledge, the 
incalculable advantages derived to this land out of the 
deep fountains of civil, intellectual, and moral truth from 
which we have drawn in England ? What American does 
not feel proud that his fathers were the countrymen of 
Bacon, of Newton, and of Locke ? AVho does not know 
that, while every pulse of civil liberty in the heart of the 
British Empire beat warm and full in the bosom of our 
ancestors, the sobriety, the firmness, and the dignity with 
which the cause of free principles struggled into existence 
. here, constantly found encouragement and countenance 
from the friends of liberty there ? 

* Pronounced rav'vn. To consume, or waste away. 




218 


THE SIXTH READER. 


Who does not remember that, when the Pilgrims went 
over the sea, the prayers of the faithful British confessors, 
in all the quarters of their dispersion, went over with 
them, while their aching eyes were strained till the stars 
of hope should go up in the western skies ? And who 
will ever forget that, in that eventful struggle which 
severed these youthful republics from the British crown, 
there was not heard, throughout our continent in arms, 
a voice which spoke louder for the rights of America 
than that of Burke or of Chatham within the walls of 
the British Parliament and at the foot of the British 
throne ? 

No; for myself, I can truly say that, after my native 
land, I feel a tenderness and a reverence for that of my 
fathers. The pride I take in my own country makes me 
respect that from which we are sprung. In touching the 
soil of England, I seem to return, like a descendant, to 
the old family seat; to come back to the abode of an 
aged and venerable parent. I acknowledge this great 
consanguinity of nations. The sound of my native lan¬ 
guage, beyond the sea, is as music to my ear, beyond the 
richest strains of Tuscan softness or Castilian majesty. 

1 am not yet in a land of strangers, while surrounded 
by the manners, the habits, and the institutions under 
which I have been brought up. I wander, delighted, 
through a thousand scenes which the historians and the 
poets have made familiar to us, of which the names are 
interwoven with our earliest associations. I tread with 
reverence the spots where I can retrace the footsteps of 
our suffering fathers; — the pleasant land of their birth 
has a claim on my heart. It seems to me a classic, yea,. 
a holy land, — rich in the memory of the great and good, 
the champions and the martyrs of liberty, the exiled her- 


OBLIGATIONS OF AMERICA TO ENGLAND. 219 


aids of truth; and richer, as the parent of this land of 
promise in the west. 

I am not — I need not say I am not — the panegyrist 
of England. I am not dazzled by her riches, nor awed 
by her power. The sceptre, the mitre, and the coronet, 
— stars, garters, and blue ribbons, — seem to me poor 
things for great men to contend for. E'or is my admira¬ 
tion awakened by her armies mustered for the battles of 
Europe, her navies overshadowing the ocean, nor her 
empire, grasping the farthest east. It is these, and the 
price of guilt and blood by which they are too often main¬ 
tained, which are the cause why no friend of liberty can 
salute her with undivided affections. 

But it is the cradle and the refuge of free principles, 
though often persecuted; the school of religious liberty, 
the more precious for the struggles through which it has 
passed; the tombs of those who have reflected honor on 
all who speak the English tongue ; it is the birthplace of 
our fathers, the home of the pilgrim ; — it is these which I 
love and venerate in England. I should feel ashamed of 
an enthusiasm for Italy and Greece, did I not also feel it 
for a land like this. In an American it would seem to me 
degenerate and ungrateful to hang with passion upon the 
traces of Homer and Virgil, and follow without emotion 
the nearer and plainer footsteps of Shakespeare and Mil- 
ton. I should think him cold in his love for his native 
land, who felt no melting in his heart for that other na¬ 
tive country which holds the ashes of his forefathers. 


220 


THE SIXTH READER. 


XXXVIII. — ADDEESS TO THE MUMMY IX 
BELZOXrS EXHIBITIOX, LOXDON. 

HORACE SMITH. 

% 

Horace Smith, a native of London, died in July, 1849, in the seventieth year of his 
age. In 1812, in conjunction with his elder brother, James Smith, he published a 
volume called “ Rejected Addresses,” consisting of imitations of the popular poets of 
the day. It had great and deserved success, and has since been frequently reprinted. 
Horace Smith was a stock-broker by profession; but in the leisure hours stolen from 
his employment he wrote a number of works of fiction, which were received with fa¬ 
vor, and many contributions, both in verse and prose, to the magazines of the time. 
His poems have been collected and published in two volumes. He was a very amiable 
and estimable man. 

A XD thou hast walked about (how strange a story!) 

In Thebes’s streets three thousand years ago, 
AVhen the Memnoniuni t was in all its glory, 

And time had not begun to overthrow 
Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous. 

Of which the very ruins are tremendous. 


Speak ! for thou long enough hast acted dummy ; 

Thou hast a tongue, — come, let us hear its tune; 
Thou ’rt standing on thy legs, above ground. Mummy, 
Eevisiting the glimpses of the moon; 

Xot like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures. 

But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbs, and features. 


Tell us — for doubtless thou canst recollect — 

To whom should we assign the sphinx’s J fame 1 

* Thebes was a celebrated city of Upper Egypt, of which extensive ruins 
still remain. 

+ The Memnonium was a building combining the properties of a palace and 
a temple, the ruins of which are remarkable for symmetry of architecture and 
elegance of sculpture. 

X The great sphinx, at the pyramids, is hewn out of a rock, in the form of 
a lion with a human head, and is one hundred and forty-three feet in length, 
and sixty-two feet in height in front. 


ADDRESS TO A MUMMY. 


221 


Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect 

Of either pyramid that bears his name h ^ 

Is Pompey’s Pillar really a misnomer 11 

Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer 1 

Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbidden 
By oath to tell the mysteries of thy trade; 

Then say what secret melody was hidden 

In Memnon’s statue, which at sunrise played. J 
Perhaps thou wert a priest; if so, my struggles 
Are vain; Egyptian priest ne’er owned his juggles. 

Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat. 

Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharoah, glass to glass : 

Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer’s hat; 

Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass; 

Or held, by Solomon’s own invitation, 

A torch at the great temple’s dedication. 

I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed. 

Has any Poman soldier mauled and knuckled; 

For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalmed, 

Ere Pomulus and Remus had been suckled ; — 

Antiquity appears to have begun 
Long after thy primevel race was run. 

Since first thy form was in this box extended, 

We have, above ground, seen some strange mutations; 

* The pyramids are well-known structures near Cairo. According to 
Herodotxas, the great pyramid, so called, was built by Cheops (pronoiinced 
Ke'ops). He was succeeded by his brother Cephren or Cephrenes (pro¬ 
nounced SeTre-nes), who, according to the same historian, built another of 
the pyramids. 

f Pompey’s Pillar is a column almost a hundred feet high, near Alexandria. 
It is now generally admitted by the learned to have had no connection with 
the Roman general whose name it bears. 

X This was a statxie at Thebes, said to utter at sunrise a sound like the 
twanging of a harp-string or of a metallic wire. 


222 


THE SIXTH READER. 


The Koman Empire has begun and ended; 

E’ew worlds have risen, ^—we have lost old nations, 

And countless kings have into dust been humbled. 

While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled. 

K 

Didst thou not hear the pother o’er thy head 
AVhen the great Persian conqueror, Camhyses, 

Marched armies o’er thy tomb with thundering tread,* 
O’erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis,t 
And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder. 

When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder ? 

If the tomb’s secrets may not he confessed. 

The nature of thy private life unfold . — 

A heart has throbbed beneath that leathern breast. 

And tears adown that dusky cheek have rolled : — 

Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that face % 
What were thy name and station, age and race 1 

Statue of flesh, — immortal of the dead ! 

Imperishable type of evanescence ! ^ 

Posthumous man, who quitt’st thy narrow bed. 

And standest undecayed within our presence ! 

Tliou wilt hear nothing till the judgment morning, 

When the great trump shall thrill thee Avith its warning. 

0 

Why should this worthless tegument endure. 

If its undying guest be lost fore^mr 1 
0, let us keep the soul embalmed and pure 
In living Aurtue, that, when both must sever. 

Although corruption may our frame consume, 

The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom! 

* Egypt was conquered 525 b. c. by Caral)y'ses, the second king of Persia. 
+ These are the names of Egyptian deities. 


GOD IN NATURE. 


223 


XXXIX.— GOD IX XATUKE. 


CHAPIN. 


Edwin Hdbbell Chapin, D. D., was bom in Union Village, Washington County, 
New York, December 29, 1814. He is a clergyman of the Universalist denomination 
but his sympathies are not bounded by the limits of any sect. Since 1848 he has 
been settled over a church in New York. He is one of the most eloquent pulpit ora¬ 
tors in America. He is remarkable for earnestness and persuasiveness flowing from 
a warm heart and a genial temperament. His style is picturesque and striking ; his 
thoughts are commended to his hearers by a voice of imcommon richness and power. 


HE grandest scale on which the operation of a Provi- 



-L dence appears is the entire system of the natural 
world. It is true that here is the field from which, in 
theory, many seem to exclude the notion of a Providence. 
They speak of Nature as a stupendous machine, wound 
up and running hy its own vitality, — an automaton 
which, by a kind of clock-work, simulates a life and an 
intelligence that are really absent from it. Or, if they do 
not deny the operation of a Divine Providence, they refer 
to what are termed the laws of nature ” in such a man¬ 
ner as to shut off the immediate agency of God. 

But what is a law of nature, except a fixed way in 
which the Creator works ? The finest element that the 
chemist can detect—the subtile, immaterial force what¬ 
ever it may be — is not the law, hut merely an expression 
of the law. And in the last analysis we cannot separate 
law from the operation of intelligent will. 

I do not say that God acts only through nature, or 
that God is identical with nature; but in a profound 
sense it is true that nature is Providence. God, who in 
essence is distinct from his works, is perpetually in his 
works. And so every night and every day his provi¬ 
dence is illustrated before us. His beneficence streams 
out from the morning sun, and his love looks down upon 


224 


THE SIXTH READER. 


us from the starry eyes of midnight. It is his solicitude 
that wraps us in the air, and the pressure of his hand, so 
to speak, that keeps our pulses beating. 

0, it is a great thing to realize that the Divine Power 
is always working; that nature, in every valve and every 
artery, is full of the presence of God ! It is a great tiling 
to conceive of Providence as both general and special, 
comprehending immensity in its plan, yet sustaining the 
frailest being, and elaborating the humblest form. Take 
up as much as you can, in your imagination, the great 
circle of existence. How wide its sweep ! How immeas¬ 
urable its currents! And are there some who tell us 
that God cares only for the grand whole, and has no 
regard for details, — that this is beneath the majesty of 
his nature, the dignity of his scheme ? 

I say, again, that nature is Providence; and this tells 
us a different story. For it is full of minute ministra¬ 
tions, as though the Divine solicitude were concentrated 
upon the insect or the worm; so that whatever thing 
you observe, it seems as though the universe were con¬ 
structed and arranged for that alone. 

And the sublimities of God’s glory beam upon us in 
his care for the little, as well as in his adjustments of the 
great; in the comfort which surrounds the little wood-bird 
and blesses the denizen of a single leaf, as well as in hap¬ 
piness that streams tlirough the hierarchies of being that 
cluster and swarm in yon forests of the firmament; in 
the skill displayed in the spider’s eye, in the beauty that 
quivers upon the butterfly’s wing, as in tlie splendors that 
emboss the chariot-wheels of night, or glitter in the san¬ 
dals of the morning. 



MOUNTAINS. 






i > 





y 


XL. —THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 


REV. THOMAS STARR KING. 


Thomas Starr King, an American divine and author, was bom in New York, De¬ 
cember 16, 1824; and died in San Francisco, March 4, 1864. He was settled over 
Hollis Street Church, Boston, in December, 1848, and continued in that place until 
April, 1860, when he went to San Francisco to take charge of a Unitarian congrega¬ 
tion there. He had great influence there by his eloquent exertions on behalf of the 
Union, and against the Rebellion. As a preacher and lecturer, combining a fervid 
spirit with elegance of expression, he enjoyed great and deserved popularity. The 
work by which he is best known is entitled “ The White Hills; Their Legends and 
Poetry,” published in quarto in 1859. 


ELL has it been said, that “ mountains are to the 



▼ ▼ rest of the body of the earth what violent muscular 
action is to the body of man. The muscles and tendons 
of its anatomy are, in the mountains, brought out with 
fierce and convulsive energy, full of expression, passion, 
and strength; the plains and the lower liills are the 
repose and the effortless motion of the frame, when its 
muscles lie dormant and concealed beneath the lines of 
its beauty, yet ruling those lines in their every undula- 


This vigor, this fierce vitality in which they had their 
origin, is the source of much of the exhilaration which 
the sight of their wild outline inspires, even when the 
beholder is unconscious of it. The waves of flame that 
drove up the great wedges of granite in New Hamp¬ 
shire through ribs of sienite and gneiss, bolted them with 
traps of porphyry and quartz, crusted them with mica and 
schist, and cross-riveted them with spikes of iron, lead, 
and tin, suggest their power in the strength with which 
the mountains are organized into the landscape, just as 
the force of a man’s temperament is shown in the lines 
of his jaw and nose. 

The richest beauty that invests the mountains suggests 


226 


THE SIXTH READER. 


this branch of their utility. The mists that settle round 
them, above which their cones sometimes float, aerial 
islands in a stagnant sea; the veils of rain that trail 
, along them; the crystal snow that makes the light twinkle 
and dance; the sombre thunder-heads that invest them 
with Sinai-like awe, — are all connected with their mission 
as the hydraulic distributors of the world, — the mighty 
trouglis that apportion to the land the moisture which the 
noiseless solar suction is ever lifting from the sea. Their 
peaks are the cradles, their furrows the first playgrounds, 
of the great rivers of the earth. 

Take a century or two into account, and we find the 
mountains fertilizing the soil by the minerals which they 
restore to it to compensate the wastes of the harvests. 

The hills, which, as compared with living beings, seem 
everlasting, are, in truth, as perishing as they. Its veins 
of flowing fountain weary the mountain heart, as the 
crimson pulse does ours! The natural force of the iron 
crag is abated in its appointed time like the strength of 
the sinews in a human old age ; and it is but the lapse of 
the longer years of decay which, in the sight of its Cre¬ 
ator, distinguishes the mountain range from the moth and 
the worm.” 

We see, then, in looking at a chain of lofty hills, and 
in thinking of their perpetual waste in the service of the 
lowlands, that the moral and physical worlds are built on 
the same pattern. 

They represent the heroes and all beneficent genius. 
They receive upon their heads and sides the larger bap¬ 
tisms from the heavens, not to be selfish with their riches, 
but to give, — to give all that is poured upon them, — 
yes, and something of themselves with every stream 
and tide. 



When we look np at old Lafayette, or along the eastern 
slopes of Mt. Washington, we find that the lines of noblest 
expression are those which the torrents have made where 
soil has been torn out, and rooks have been grooved, and 
























































































228 


THE SIXTH READER. 


ridofes have been made more nervous, and the walls ot 
ravines have been channelled for noble pencillings of 
shadow by the waste of the mountain in its patient 
suffering. 

In its gala-day of sunlight the artist finds that its 
glory is its character. 

All its losses are glorified then into expression. 

"^he great mountains rise in the landscape as heroes 
and prophets in history, ennobled by what they have 
given, sublime in the expressions of struggle and pain, 
invested with richest draperies of light, because their 
brows have been torn and their cheeks have been 
furrowed by toils and cares in behalf of districts be¬ 
low. 

Upon the mountains is wu'itten the law, and in their 
grandeur is displayed the fulfilment of it, that perfection 
comes through suffering. 

But we come to the highest use which mountains serve 
when we speak of their beauty. No farm in Coos* County 
lias been a tithe so serviceable as the cone of Mt. Wash¬ 
ington, with the harvests of color that have been reaped 
from it for the canvas of artists or for the joy of vis¬ 
itors. 

Think of the loss to human nature if the summits 
of Mont Blanc and the Jungfrau ■[" could be levelled, 
and their jagged sides, sheeted with snow and flaming 
with amethyst and gold, should be softened by the sun 
and tilled for vines and corn ! Pour out over them every 
year all the wine that is wrung from the vineyards of 
Italy and France, and what a mere sprinkling in compari¬ 
son with the floods of amber, of purple, and of more vivid 
and celestial flames, with which no wine was ever pierced. 

Pronounced Yung'froti. 


* Pronounced Co-os'. 


THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 


229 


that are shed over them by one sunrise, or that flow up 
their cold acclivities at each clear sunset. 

The mountains are more grand and inspiring when we 
stand at the proper distance and look at them than when 
we look from them. Their highest call is to be resting- 
places of the light, the stafts from which the most gor¬ 
geous banners of morning and evening are displayed. 
And these uses we may observe and enjoy among the 
moderate mountains of ^^ew Hampshire. 

They are huge lay figures on which Nature shows off 
the splendors of her aerial wardrobe. She makes them 
wear mourning-veils of shadow, exquisite lace-work of dis¬ 
tant rain, hoary wigs of cloud, the blue costume of north- 
• west winds, the sallow dress of sultry southern airs, white 
wrappers of dogday fog, purple and scarlet vests of sun¬ 
set light, gauzy films of moonliglit, the gorgeous embroid¬ 
ery of autumn chemistries, the flashing ermine dropped 
from the winter sky, and tlie glittering jewelry strewn 
over their snowy vestments by tlie cunning fingers of the 
frost. These are the crops which the intellect and lieart 
find waiting and waving for them, without any effort or 
care of mortal culture, on the upper barrenness of the 
hills. 

‘ ‘ So call not waste tliat barren cone 
Above the floral zone, 

Where forests starve ; 

It is pure use ; — 

What sheaves like those which here we glean and bind 
Of a celestial Ceres and the Muse ? ” 


230 


THE SIXTH READER. 


XLI. — ABEAHAM DAVEXPOET. 

WHITTIER. 

John Greenleaf Whittier was born in Haverhill, Massachusetts, in 1808. He 
has written much in prose and verse ; and his writings are characterized by earnest¬ 
ness of tone, high moral purpose, and energy of expression. His spirit is that of a 
sincere and fearless reformer; and his fervent appeals are the true utterances of a 
brave and loving heart. The themes of his poetry have been drawn, in a great meas¬ 
ure, from the history, traditions, manners, and scenery of New England ; and he has 
found the elements of poetical interest among them, without doing any violence to 
truth. He describes natural scenery correctly and beautifully; and a vein of genuine 
tenderness runs through his writings. 

I X the old days (a custom laid aside 

With breeches and cocked hats) the people sent 
Their wisest men to make the public laws; 

And so, from a brown homestead, where the Sound 
Drinks the small tribute of the Mianas, 

Waved over by the woods of Eippowams, 

And hallowed by pure lives and tranquil deaths, 

Stamford sent up to the councils of the State 
Wisdom and grace in Abraham Davenport. 

’T was on a May-day of the far old year 
Seventeen hundred eighty, that there fell 
Over the bloom and sweet life of the spring. 

Over the fresh eartli and the heaven of noon, 

A horror of great darkness, like the night 
In-day of which the Xorland sagas tell, — 

The twiliglit of the gods. The low-hung sky 
Was black with ominous clouds, save where its rim 
Was fringed with a dull glow, like that which climbs 
The crater’s sides from the red hell below. 

Birds ceased to sing, and all the barnyard fowls 

Boosted; the cattle at the pasture-bars 

Lowed, and looked homeward; bats on leathern wings 

* A sa'ga is an old heroic Scandinavian tale. 


ABRAHAM DAVENPORT. 


231 



Flitted abroad; the sounds of labor died ; 

Men prayed, and women Avept; all ears grew sharp 
To hear the doom-blast of the trumpet shatter 
The black sky, that the dreadful face of Christ 
Might look from the rent clouds, not as he looked 
A loving guest at Bethany, but stern 
As Justice and inexorable law. 

Meanwhile in the old State House, dim as ghosts. 
Sat the laAvgivers of Connecticut, 

Trembling beneath their legislative robes. 

‘‘It is the Lord’s Great Day ! Let us adjourn,” 
Some said; and then, as if with one accord. 

All eyes were turned to Abraham Davenport. 

He rose, slow cleaving with his steady voice 
The intolerable hush. “ This well may be 
The day of judgment, Avhich the Avorld awaits ; 

But be it so or not, I only knoAV 
My present duty, and my Lord’s command 
To occupy till he come. So, at the post 
Where he hath set me in his providence, 

I choose, for one, to meet him face to face, — 

No faithless servant frightened from my task. 

But ready when the Lord of the harvest calls; 

And therefore, with all reverence, I would say. 

Let God do his Avork, we will see to ours. 

Bring in the candles.” And they brought them in. 
Then by the flaring lights the Speaker read. 

Albeit Avith husky voice and shaking hands, 

“ An act to amend an act to regulate 
The shad and alewive fisheries.” Whereupon, 
Wisely and well spake Abraham Davenport, 
Straight to the question, with no figures of speech 
Save the ten Arab signs, yet not without 
The shreAvd dry humor natural to the man : 


232 


THE SIXTH READER. 


His awe-struck colleagues listening all the while, 
Between the pauses of his argument, 

To hear the thunder of the wrath of God 
Break from the hollow trumpet of the cloud. 
And there he stands in memory to this day. 
Erect, self-poised, a rugged face, half seen 
Against the background of unnatural dark, 

A witness to the ages as they pass. 

That simple duty hath no place for fear. 




XLII. —EICHELIEU’S VINDICATION. 

BULWER. 

Sir Edward George Earle Bulwer-Lytton (generally known by bis original 
name of Bulwer), one of the most popular and distinguished writers of England, 
was born at Haydon Hall, in the county of Norfolk, in 1805, educated at the 
University of Cambridge, and died Januaiy 18, 1873. He was the author of a large 
number of novels, as well as of plays, poems, and miscellanies. He was a writer 
of various and versatile power, and his novels are remarkable for brilliant descrip¬ 
tion, startling adventures, sharp delineation of character, and — especially the later 
ones — a vein of philosophical reflection. The moral tone of his earlier works is not 
always to be commended, but in this respect, as well as in substantial literary merit, 
there is a marked improvement in tliose of later date. 

The following passage is from “Richelieu,” a play founded upon certain incidents 
in the life of tlie great French statesman of that name. 

M y liege, your anger can recall your trust. 

Annul my office, spoil me of my lands, 

Bifle my coffers; hut my name, my deeds. 

Are royal in a land beyond your sceptre. 

Pass sentence on me, if you will; — from kings, 

Lo, I appeal to Time ! Be just, my liege. 

I found your kingdom rent with heresies. 

And bristling with rebellion ; — lawless nobles 
And breadless serfs ] England fomenting discord ; 
Austria, her clutch on your dominion ; Spain 
Forging the prodigal gold of either Ind 




JOHN HAMPDEN. 


233 


To armed thunderbolts. The Arts lay dead; 

Trade rotted in your marts ; your armies mutinous, 
Your treasury bankrupt. Would you now revoke 
Your trust, so be it! and I leave you, sole, 

Supremest IMonarch of the mightiest realm, 

From Ganges to the icebergs. Look without, — 

Xo foe not bumbled ! Look within, — the Arts 
Quit, for our schools, their old Hesperides, 

The golden Italy ! while throughout the veins 
Of your vast empire flows in strengthening tides 
Trade, the calm health of Xations! Sire, I know 
That men have called me cruel; — 

I am not ; — I am/z45^ ! I found France rent asunder. 
The rich men despots, and the poor banditti; 

Sloth in the mart, and schism within the temple; 
Brawls festering to rebellion; and weak laws 
Lotting away with rust in antique sheaths. 

I have re-created France; and, from the ashes 
Of the old feudal and decrepit carcass. 

Civilization, on her luminous wings. 

Soars, phcenix-hke, to Jove ! What was my art ] 
Genius, some say; — some. Fortune; Witchcraft, some. 
^Xot so ; — my art was Justice. 




XLIII. — JOHN HAMPDEN. 

M.\CAULAT. 

Thomas Babington Macaulay was born in the village of Rothley, in the county 
of Leicester, England, October 25, 1800 ; and died December 28, 1859. He was edu¬ 
cated at Cambridge University, and was called to the bar in 1826. In 1830 he became 
a member of Parliament, and took an active part in the debates on the Reform Bill. 
In 1834 he was sent to India as a member of the Supreme Council. Returning home 
in 1838, he was again elected to Parliament in 1839, and was appointed Secretary of 
War. At the election of 1847 he was defeated, and remained out of Parliament till 
1852, when he again became a member. He was created a peer of England, with the 




234 


THE SIXTH READER 


title of Baron Macaulay of Rothley, in 1857. His principal literary work is a History 
of England, in five volumes, the last a fragmentary volume published since his la¬ 
mented death. No historical work in the English language has ever enjoyed so wide 
a popularity. It is written in a most animated and attractive style, and abounds 
with brilliant pictures. It embodies the results of very thorough research, and its 
tone and spirit are generous and liberal. 

His essays, most of which were originally contributed to the “ Edinburgh Review,” 
have had a popularity greater even than that of his History. They are remarkable 
for brilliant rhetorical power, splendid coloring, and affluence of illustration. 

Lord Macaulay has also written “ Lays of Ancient Rome,” and some ballads in the 
same style, which are full of animation and energy, and have the true trumpet ring 
which stirs the soul and kindles the blood. His parliamentary speeches have been 
also collected and published, and are marked by the same brilliant rhetorical energy 
as his writings. 

Tlie following account of the death and character of John Hampden, the great Eng¬ 
lish patriot, is taken from a review of Lord Nugent’s Memorials of Hampden, pub¬ 
lished in the “ Edinburgh Review ” in 1831. 

In June, 1643, Prince Rupert, a nephew of Charles I., and a general in his service, 
had sallied out from Oxford on a predatoiy expedition, and, after some slight suc- 
’cesses, was preparing to hurry back with his prisoners and booty. The Earl of Essex 
was the Parliamentary commander-in-chief. 

A S soon as Hampden received intelligence of Eiipert’s 
incursion, he sent off a horseman with a message to 
the general. In the mean time lie resolved to set out 
witli all the cavalry he could muster, for the purpose of 
impeding the march of the' enemy till Essex could take 
measures for cutting off their retreat. A considerable body 
of horse and dragoons volunteered to follow him. He was 
not their commander. He did not even belong to their 
branch of the service. But he was,” says Lord Claren¬ 
don, ''second to none but the general himself in the 
observance and application of all men.” On the field of 
Chalgrove he came up with Eupert. A fierce skirmish 
ensued. In the first charge Hampden was struck in the 
shoulder by two bullets, which broke the bone and lodged 
in his body. The troops of the Parliament lost heart and 
gave way. Eupert, after pursuing them for a short time, 
hastened to cross the bridge, and made his retreat unmo¬ 
lested to Oxford. 

Hampden, witli his head drooping, and his hands lean- 


JOHN HAMPDEN. 


235 


ing on his horse’s neck, moved feebly out of the battle. 
The mansion which had been inhabited by Ids father-in- 
law, and from which, in his youth, he had carried home 
his bride Elizabeth, was in sight. There still remains an 
affecting tradition that he looked for a moment towards 
that beloved house, and made an effort to go thither and 
die. But the enemy lay in that direction. He turned 
his horse towards Thame, where he arrived almost faint¬ 
ing with agony. The surgeons dressed his wounds. But 
there was no hope. The pain which he suffered was most 
excruciating. But he endured it with admirable firmness 
and resignation. 

His first care was for his country. He wrote from his 
bed several letters to London, concerning public affairs, and 
sent a last pressing message to the head-quarters, recom¬ 
mending that the dispersed forces should be concentrated. 
When his public duties were performed, he calmly pre¬ 
pared himself to die. He was attended by a clergyman 
of the Church of England, with whom he had lived in 
habits of intimacy, and by the chaplain of the Bucking¬ 
hamshire Greencoats, Dr. Spurton, whom Baxter describes 
as a famous and excellent divine. 

A short time before his death, the sacrament was 
administered to him. His intellect remained unclouded. 
When all was nearly over, he lay murmuring faint prayers 
for himself, and for the cause in which he died. Lord 
Jesus,” he exclaimed, in the moment of the last agony, 
‘'receive my soul. 0 Lord, save my country! 0 Lord, 
be merciful to — ” In that broken ejaculation passed 
away his noble and fearless spirit. 

He was buried in the parish church of Hampden. His 
soldiers, bareheaded, with reversed arms and muffled drams 
and colors, escorted his body to the grave, singing, as they 


236 


THE SIXTH READER. 


marched, that lofty and melancholy psalm in which the 
fragility of human life is contrasted with the immutability 
of Him to whom a thousand years are as yesterday when 
it is passed, and as a watch in the night. 

The news of Hampden’s death produced as great a con¬ 
sternation in his party, according to Clarendon, as if their 
whole army had been cut off The journals of the time 
amply prove that the Parliament and all its friends were 
filled with grief and dismay. Lord Hugent has quoted 
a remarkable passage from the next '^Weekly Intelligen¬ 
cer ” : “ The loss of Colonel Hampden goeth near the 
heart of every man that loves the good of his king and 
country, and makes some conceive little content to be at 
the army, now that he is gone. Tlie memory of this 
deceased colonel is such, that in no age to come but it 
will more and more be had in honor and esteem; a man 
so religious, and of that prudence, judgment, temper, 
valor, and integrity, that he hath left few his like behind.” 
He had indeed left none his like behind him. 

There still remained, indeed, in his party many acute 
intellects, many eloquent tongues, man}^ brave and honest 
hearts. There still remained a rugged and clownish sol¬ 
dier, half fanatic, half buffoon,* whose talents, discerned 
as yet only by one penetrating eye, were equal to all the 
highest duties of the soldier and the prince. But in 
Hampden, and in Hampden alone, were united all the 
qualities which, at such a crisis, were necessary to save the 
state, — the valor and energy of Cromwell, the discern¬ 
ment and eloquence of Vane, the humanity and modera¬ 
tion of IManchester, the stern integrity of Hale, the ardent 
public spirit of Sidney. Others might possess the qual¬ 
ities which were necessary to save the popular party in 


* Cromwell. 


A TASm^ FOR READING. 


237 


the crisis of danger ; he alone had both the power and the 
inclination to restrain its excesses in the hour of triumph. 
Others could conquer; he alone could reconcile. 

A heart as bold as his brought up the cuirassiers who 
turned the tide of battle on Marston Moor. As skilful an 
eye as his watched the Scotch army descending from the 
Iieights over Dunbar. But it was when, to the sullen 
tyranny of Laud and Charles had succeeded the fierce 
conflict of sects and factions, ambitious of ascendency and 
burning for revenge, — it was wdren the vices and igno¬ 
rance which the old tyranny had generated threatened the 
new freedom with destruction,— that England missed the 
sobriety, the self-command, the perfect soundness of judg¬ 
ment, the perfect rectitude of intention, to which the his¬ 
tory of revolutions furnishes no parallel, or furnishes a 
parallel in Washington alone. 


XLIV. —A TASTE FOE EEADING. 


GEORGE S. HILLARD. 


E cannot linger in the beautiful creations of in- 



V V ventive genius, or pursue the splendid discoveries 
of modern science, without a new sense of the capacities 
and dignity of human nature, which naturally leads to a 
sterner self-respect, to manlier resolves and higher aspira¬ 
tions. We cannot read the ways of God to man as re¬ 
vealed in the history of nations, of sublime virtues as 
exemplified in the lives of great and good men, without 
falling into that mood of thoughtful admiration, which, 
though it be but a transient glow, is a purifying and ele- 
vatin" influence while it lasts. 

O 




238 


TEE SIXTH READER. 


The study of history is especially valuable as an anti¬ 
dote to self-exaggeration. It teaches lessons of humility, 
patience, and submission. When we read of realms 
smitten with the scourge of famine or pestilence, or 
strewn with the bloody ashes of war; of grass growing- 
in the streets of great cities; of ships rotting at the 
wharves ; of fathers burying their sons ; of strong men 
beQ-o-ins; their bread; of fields untilled, and silent work- 
shops, and despairing countenances, — we hear a voice 
of rebuke to our own clamorous sorrows and peevish 
complaints. We learn that pain and suffering and dis¬ 
appointment are a part of God’s providence, and that no 
contract was ever yet made with man by which virtue 
should secure to him temporal happiness. 

In books, be it remembered, we havei the best products 
of the best minds. We should any of us esteem it a 
great privilege to pass an evening with Shakespeare or 
Bacon, were such a thing possible. But, were we ad¬ 
mitted to the presence of one of these illustrious men, 
we might find him touched with infirmity, or oppressed 
with weariness, or darkened with the shadow of a recent 
trouble, or absorbed by intrusive and tyrannous thoughts. 
To us the oracle might be dumb, and the light eclipsed. 

But, when we take down one of their volumes, we run 
no such risk. Here we have their best thoughts, em¬ 
balmed in their best words; immortal fiowers of poetry, 
wet with Castalian dews, and the golden fruit of wisdom 
that had long ripened on the bough before it was gath¬ 
ered. Here we find the growth of the choicest seasons 
of the mind, when mortal cares were forgotten, and 
mortal weaknesses were subdued; and the soul, stripped 
of its vanities and its passions, lay bare to the finest 
effluences of truth and beauty. We may be sure that 


A TAST£ FOR READING. 


239 


Shakespeare never out-talked his Hamlet, nor Bacon his 
Essays. Great writers are indeed best known through 
their books. 

For the knowledge that comes from books, I would 
claim no more than it is fairly entitled to. I am well 
aware that there is no inevitable connection between 
intellectual cultivation, on the one hand, and individual 
virtue or social well-being, on the other. “The tree of 
knowledge is not the tree of life.” 

I admit that genius and learning are sometimes found 
in combination with gross vices, and not unfrequently 
with contemptible weaknesses; and that a community at 
once cultivated and corrupt is no impossible monster. 
But it is no overstatement to say, that, other things being 
equal, the man who has the greatest amount of intel¬ 
lectual resources is in the least danger from inferior 
temptations, — if for no other reason, because he has 
fewer idle moments. The ruin of most men dates from 
some vacant hour. Occupation is the armor of the soul; 
and the train of Idleness is borne up by all the vices. 
I remember a satirical poem, in which the Devil is rep¬ 
resented as fishing for men, and adapting his baits to the 
taste and temperament of his prey; but the idler, he 
said, pleased him most, because he bit the naked hook. 

To a young man away from home, friendless and for¬ 
lorn in a great city, the hours of peril are those between 
sunset and bedtime; for the moon and stars see more of 
evil in a single hour than the sun in his whole day’s cir¬ 
cuit. The poet’s visions of evening are all compact of 
tender and soothing images. It brings the wanderer to 
his home, the child to his mother s arms, the ox to his 
stall, and the weary laborer to his rest. But to the 
gentle-hearted youth who is thrown upon the rocks of 


/ 




240 


THE Si/tH reader. 







# 


a pitiless city, and stands “homeless amid a thousand 
homes,” the approach of evening brings with it an aching 
sense of loneliness and desolation, which comes down 
upon the spirit like darkness upon the earth. 

• In this mood, his best impulses become a snare to him; 
and he is led astray because he is social, affectionate, sym¬ 
pathetic, and warm-hearted. If there be a young man, 
thus circumstanced, within the sound of my voice, let 
me say to him, that books are the friends of the friend¬ 
less, and that a library is the home of the homeless. A 
taste for reading will always carry you into the best 
possible company, and enable you to converse with men 
who will instruct you by their wisdom, and charm you 
by their wit; who will soothe you when fretted, refresh 
^ you when weary, counsel you when perplexed, and sym- 
' ^ pathize with you at all times. 


XLV. — BEINGINO OUE SHEAVES WITH US. 



ELIZABETH AKERS. 


T he time for toil has passed, and night has come, — 
The last and saddest of the harvest eves ; 

Worn out with labor long and wearisome. 

Drooping and faint, the reapers hasten home, 

Each laden with his sheaves. 

Last of the laborers, thy feet I gain, 

Lord of the harvest! and my spirit grieves 

That I am burdened, not so much with grain, » 

As with a heaviness of heart and brain ; — 

Master, behold my sheaves ! 



> - ‘ J,I2^ES TO A CHILD. ; 

Few, light, and worthless, —yet their trifling weight 
Through all my frame a weary aching leaves; 

For long I struggled with my hopeless fate, 

And stayed and toiled till it was dark and late, — 

Yet these are all my sheaves. 

Full well I know I have more tares than wheat. 
Brambles and flowers, dry stalks and withered leaves; 
Wherefore I blush and weep, as at thy feet 
I kneel down reverently and repeat, 

“ Master, behold my sheaves ! ” 


I know these blossoms, clustering heavily. 
With evening dew upon their folded leaves. 
Can claim no value or utility, — 

Therefore shall fragrancy and beauty be 
The glory of my sheaves. 


So do I gather strength and hope anew ; 
For well I know thy patient love perceives 
Not what I did, hut what I strove to do : 
And though the full ripe ears he sadly few. 
Thou wilt accept my sheaves. 




XLVL —LINES TO A CHILD, ON HIS VOYAGE 
TO FEANCE, TO MEET HIS FATHER. 

WARE. 

Henry Ware, Jr., was bom in Hingham, Massachusetts, April 21, 1794; ami died 
September 25, 1S43. He was a settled clergyman in Boston from 1817 to 1829, .and 
afterw.ards profes.sor in the theologic.al school at Cambridge. He published many 
essjiys .and discourses on moral and religious subjects, and a few pieces of poetry. 
He was a man of .ardent piety, .an earnest and excellent preacher, and always con¬ 
trolled by the highest sense of duty. His prose writings are marked by simplicity, 
directness, and strong religious feeling; and the few poems he wrote show poetic.al 
powers of no common order. 

The following lines originally appeared in the “ Christian Disciple.” 





242 


THE SIXTH READER. 


L O ! how impatiently upon the tide 

The proud ship tosses, eager to he free. 

Her hag streams wildly, and her huttering sails 
Pant to be on their hight. A few hours more. 

And she will move in stately grandeur on. 

Cleaving her path majestic through the hood. 

As if she were a goddess of the deep. 

0, T is a thought sublime, that man can force 
A path upon the waste, can hnd a way 
Where all is trackless, and compel the winds. 

Those freest agents of Almighty power, 

To lend their untamed wings, and bear him on 
To distant climes ! Thou, William, still art young, 
And dost not see the wonder. Thou wilt tread* 

The buoyant deck, and look upon the hood, 
Unconscious of the high sublimity. 

As T were a common thing, — thy soul unawed. 

Thy childish sports unchecked ; while thinking man 
Shrinks back into himself, — himself so mean 
Mid things so vast, — and, rapt in deepest awe, 
Bends to the might of that mysterious Power, 

Who holds the waters in his hand, and guides 
The ungovernable winds. ’T is not in man 
To look unmoved upon that heaving waste, 

Wliich, from horizon to horizon spread. 

Meets the o’erarching heavens on every side. 
Blending their hues in distant faintness there. 

’T is wonderful! — and yet, my boy, just such 
Is life. Life is a sea as fathomless. 

As wide, as terrible, and yet sometimes 
As calm and beautiful. The light of Heaven 
Smiles on it, and’t is decked with every hue 
Of glory and of joy. Anon, dark clouds 


EXECUTION OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 243 


Arise, contending winds of fate go forth, 

And liope sits weeping o’er a general wreck. 

And thou must sail upon this sea, a long, 

Eventful voyage. The wise may suffer wreck. 

The foolish must. 0, then be early wise ! 

Learn from the mariner his skilful art 
To ride upon the waves, and catch the breeze. 

And dare the threatening storm, and trace a path 
Mid countless dangers, to the destined port. 
Unerringly secure. 0, learn from him 
^ To station quick-eyed Prudence at the helm. 

To guard thy sail from Passion’s sudden blasts. 

And make Peligion thy magnetic guide, 

AVhich, though it trembles as it lowly lies. 

Points to the light that changes not, in Heaven ! 

Farewell, — Heaven smile propitious on thy course. 
And favoring breezes waft thee to the arms 
Of love paternal. — Yes, and more than this, — 

Blest be thy passage o’er the changing sea 
Of life; the clouds be few that intercept 
The light of joy; the waves roll gently on 
Beneath thy bark of hope, and bear thee safe 
To meet in peace thine other father, — God. 




XLVII.—EXECUTIO^r OF MARY, QUEEX OF SCOTS. 

LINGARD. 

JoHJT Lixgard was bom in Winchester, England, February 5, 1771 ; and died July 
13, 1851. He was a clergyman of the Roman Catholic faith. The chief literary labor of 
his life was his “ History of England,” from the earliest period down to the revolution 
of 1688 ; the latest edition of which is in ten volumes, octavo. This work has taken a 
high and permanent rank in the historical literature of his country. The style is sim¬ 
ple, correct,*and manly, without being remarkable for beauty or eloquence. The chief 




244 


THE SIXTH READER. 


value of the work consists in its thorough and patient research into the original sources 
of English history. How far it is imijartial when treating uiiou controverted i)oint3 
is a question which neither Catholics nor Protestants are exactly in a position to an¬ 
swer. Dr. Lingard was a sincere and conscientious Catholic ; his temperament was calm 
and judicial ; and if he betrays any bias in favor of his own faith, it is, perhaps, no 
more than that unconscious bias which always attends genuine conviction. Hi.j 
History, at all events, should be carefully read by every one who is not content 
with the cheap task of deciding before he hears both sides. 

Dr. Lingard also wrote “ The History and Antiquities of the Anglo-Saxon Church,” 
and some manuals of religious teaching. 

Mary of Scotland, after the total defeat of her party at the battle of Langside, in 
1568, fled to England, and threw herself upon the i>rotection of Elizabeth, Queen of 
England, by whom, however, she was kept a prisoner for nineteen years. She was 
then tried by a commission for engaging in a consjuracy agaimst the life of Elizabeth, 
and condemned to death. She was beheaded February 8, 1587, at Fotheringay Castle, 
in Northamptonshire ; and the following is a description of her execution. 

I ]Sr the midst of the great hall of the castle had been 
raised a scaffold, covered with black serge, and sur¬ 
rounded with a low railing. About seven the doors were 
thrown open; the gentlemen of the county entered with 
their attendants; and Paulet’s* guard augmented the 
number to between one hundred and fifty and two hun¬ 
dred spectators. Before eight, a message was sent to the 
queen, who replied that she would be ready in half an 
hour. At that time, Andrews, the sheriff, entered the 
oratory, and Mary arose, taking the crucifix from the altar 
in her right, and carrying her prayer-book in her left 
hand. Her servants were forbidden to follow; they in¬ 
sisted ; but the queen bade them to be content, and turn¬ 
ing, gave them her blessing. They received it on their 
knees, some kissing her hands, others her mantle. The 
door closed; and the burst of lamentation from those 
within resounded through the hall. 

Mary was now joined by the earl and her keepers, and, 
descending the stairca'fee, found at the foot Melville, the 
steward of her household, who, for several weeks, had been 
excluded from her presence. This old and faithful servant 

* Sir Annas Paulet was the officer who had tlie custody of Mary’s person. 


EXECUTION OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 245 


threw himself on his knees, and wringing his hands, ex¬ 
claimed, “ Ah, madam, unhappy me ! was ever a man on 
earth the hearer of such sorrow as I shall be, when I re¬ 
port that my good and gracious queen and mistress was 
beheaded in England ! ” Here his grief impeded his utter¬ 
ance ; and Mary replied, “ Good Melville, cease to lament; 
thou hast rather cause to joy than mourn; for thou shalt 
see the end of Mary Stuart’s troubles. Know that this 
world is but vanity, subject to more sorrow than an ocean 
of tears can bewail. But I pray thee, report that I die 
a true woman to my religion, to Scotland, and to France. 
May God forgive them that have long thirsted for my 
hlood, as the hart doth for the brooks of water. 0 God, 
thou art the Author of truth, and Truth itself I Thou 
knowest the inward chambers of my thoughts, and that 
I always wished the union of England and Scotland. 
Commend me to my son, and tell him that I have done 
nothing prejudicial to the dignity or independence of his 
crown, or favorable to the pretended superiority of our 
enemies.” Then, bursting into tears, she said, “ Good 
Melville, farewell ” ; and, kissing him, “ Once again, good 
Melville, farewell, and pray for thy mistress and thy 
queen.” It was remarked as something extraordinary, 
that this was the first time in her life she had ever been 
known to address a person with the pronoun thou. 

The procession now set forward. It was headed by the 
sheriff and his officers; next followed Paulet and Drury, 
and the Earls of Shrewsbury and Kent; and lastly came 
the Scottish queen, with Melville bearing her train. She 
wore the richest of her dresses, — that which was appro¬ 
priate to the rank of a queen dowager. Her step was firm, 
and her countenance cheerful. She bore without shrinking 
the gaze of the spectators, and the sight of the scaffold, 


246 


THE SIXTH READER. 


the block, and the executioner, and advanced into the hall 
with that grace and majesty which she had so often dis¬ 
played in her happier days, and in the palace of her fathers. 
To aid her as she mounted the scaffold, Paulet offered his 
arm. I thank you, sir,” said Mary ; “ it is the last trouble 
I shall give you, and the most acceptable service you have 
ever rendered me.” 

The queen seated herself on a stool which was pre¬ 
pared for her. On her right stood the two earls; on the 
left the sheriff and Beal, the clerk of the council; in front, 
the executioner from the Tower, in a suit of black velvet, 
with his assistant, also clad in black. The warrant was 
read, and Mary, in an audible voice, addressed the as¬ 
sembly. 

She would have them recollect that she was a sovereign 
princess, not subject to the Parliament of England, but 
brought there to suffer by injustice and violence. She, 
however, thanked her God that he had given her this 
opportunity of publicly professing her religion, and of 
declaring, as she had often before declared, that she had 
never imagined, nor compassed, nor consented to, the 
death of the English queen, nor ever sought the least 
harm to her person. After her death, many thinos, which 
were then buried in darkness, would come to light. But 
she pardoned from her heart all her enemies, nor should 
her tongue utter that which might turn to their prejudice. 

Here she was interrupted by Dr. Fletcher, Dean of Pe¬ 
terborough, who, having caught her eye, began to preach, 
and under that cover, perhaps through motives of zeal, 
contrived to insult the feelings of the unfortunate sufferer. 
Mary repeatedly desired him not to trouble himself and 
her. He persisted she turned asfele. He made the cir¬ 
cuit of the scaffold, and again addressed her in front. An 


EXECUTION OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 247 


end was put to this extraordinary scene by the Earl of 
Shrewsbury, who ordered him to pray. 

His prayer was the echo of his sermon; but Mary heard 
him not. She was employed at the time in her devotions, 
repeating with a loud voice, and in the Latin language, 
passages from the Book of Psalms; and after the dean was 
reduced to silence, a prayer in French, in which she 
begged of God to pardon her sins, declared that she for¬ 
gave her enemies, and protested that she was innocent of 
ever consenting, in wish or deed, to the death of her Eng¬ 
lish sister. She then prayed in English for Christ’s 
afflicted church, for her son James, and for Queen Eliza¬ 
beth, and in conclusion, holding up the crucifix, exclaimed, 
“ As thy arms, 0 God, were stretched out upon the cross, 
so receive me into the arms of thy mercy, and forgive 
my sins! ” 

When her maids, bathed in tears, began to disrobe their 
mistress, the executioners, fearing the loss of their usual 
perquisites, hastily interfered. The queen remonstrated, 
but instantly submitted to their rudeness, observing to the 
earls, with a smile, that she was not accustomed to employ 
such grooms, or to undress in the presence of so numerous 
a company. 

Her servants, at the sight of their sovereign in this 
lamentable state, could not suppress their feelings; but 
Mary, putting her finger to her lips, commanded silence, 
gave them her blessing, and solicited their prayers. She 
then seated herself again. Kennedy, taking from her a 
handkerchief edged with gold, pinned it over her eyes; 
tlie executioners, holding her by the arms led her to the 
block ; and the queen, kneeling down, said repeatedly, 
with a firm voice, “ Into thy hands, 0 Lord, I commend 
my spirit.” 


248 


THE SIXTH READER. 


But the sobs and groans of the spectators disconcerted 
the headsman. He trembled, missed his aim, and inflicted 
a deep wound in the lower part ol tlie skull. The queen 
remained motionless; and at the third stroke her head 
was severed from her body. When the executioner held 
it up, the muscles of the face were so strongly convulsed, 
that the features could not be recognized. He cried as 
usual, “ God save Queen Elizabetli.” 

“ So perish all her enemies! ” subjoined the Dean of 
Peterborough. 

“ So perish all the enemies of the gospel! ” exclaimed, 
in a still louder tone, the fanatical' Earl of Kent. 

Not a voice was heard to cry amen. Party feeling was . 
absorbed in admiration and pity. 


<>♦ 


XLVIII. —THE TEIAL OF WAKPtEN HASTINGS. 

MACAULAY. 

This description of the trial of Warren Hastings is from the review of Gleig’s “ Life 
of Hastings,” in the “ Edinburgh Review.” Hastings was governor-general of India 
from 1774 to 1785; and on his return to England was impeached by the House of 
Commons, and tried by the House of Lords, for numerous acts of injustice and op¬ 
pression. The trial began in 1788, and dragged on its slow length till 1795, when he 
was finally acquitted. The judgments of men entitled to respect are still divided as 
to the amount of blame to be attached to Hastings. He was a man of great abilities, 
but there can be no doubt that he was often unscrupulous in his conduct, and cruel 
in his government. He constantly acted upon the dangerous doctrine, that a good 
end justifies the use of any means to attain it. He was nearly ruined by the expenses 
of his trial, which are said to have amounted to nearly four hundred thousand dol¬ 
lars. 

T he place was worthy of sucli a trial. It was the great 
hall of William Eufus;^ the hall whicli had resound¬ 
ed with acclamations at the inauguration of thirty kings; 
the hall which had witnessed the just sentence of Bacon, 

* Westminster Hall was built by William Rufus, for a banqueting hall. 




THE TRIAL OF WARREN HASTINGS. 


249 


and the just absolution of Somers; the hall where the 
eloquence of Strafford had for a moment awed and melted 
a victorious party inflamed with just resentment; the 
hall where Charles had confronted the high court of 
justice, with the placid courage that has half redeemed 
his fame. 

Neither military nor civil pomp were wanting. The 
avenues were lined with grenadiers. The streets were 
kept clear by cavalry. The peers, robed in gold and 
ermine, were marshalled by heralds under the garter 
king-at-arms. The judges, in their vestments of state 
attended to give advice on points of law. Near a liun- 
dred and seventy lords, three fourths of the upper house, 
as the upper house then was, w^alked in solemn order 
from their usual place of assembling to the tribunal.' The 
junior baron present led the way, — George Eliott, Lord 
Heathfield, recently ennobled for his memorable defence 
of Gibraltar against the fleets and armies of France and 
Spain. The long procession was closed by the Duke of 
Norfolk, earl marshal of the realm, by the great dignita¬ 
ries, and by the brothers and tlie sons of the king. Last 
of all came the Prince of Wales, conspicuous by his fine 
j^erson and noble bearing. 

The gray old walls were hung with scarlet. The long 
galleries were crowded by an audience such as has rarely 
excited the fears or the emulation of an orator. There 
were gathered together, from all parts of a great, free, 
enlightened, and prosperous empire, grace and female 
loveliness, wit and learning, the representatives of every 
science and of every art. 

Tliere were seated round the queen the fair-haired 
young daughters of the house of Brunswick. There the 
ambassadors of great kings and commonwealths gazed 


250 


TEE SIXTH READER. 


with admiration on a spectacle which no other country 
in the world could present. There Siddons, in the prime 
of her majestic beauty, looked with emotion on a scene 
surpassing all the imitations of the stage. There the his¬ 
torian of the Eoman Empire * thought of the days when 
Cicero pleaded the cause of Sicily against Verres, and 
wlien, before a senate that still retained some show of 
freedom, Tacitus thundered against the oppressor of 
Africa. 

There were seen, side by side, the greatest scholar and 
the greatest painter of the age. The spectacle had allured 
lieynolds from that easel which has preserved to us the 
thoughtful foreheads of so many writers and statesmen, 
and the sweet smiles of so many noble matrons. It had 
induced Parr •(* to suspend his labors in that dark and 
profound mine from which he had extracted a vast treas¬ 
ure of erudition, a treasure too often buried in the earth, 
too often paraded with injudicious and inelegant ostenta¬ 
tion, but still precious, massive, and splendid. 

There appeared the voluptuous charms of her J to whom 
the heir of the throne had in secret plighted his faith. 
There, too, was she,§ the beautiful mother of a beautiful 
race, the St. Cecilia, whose delicate features, lighted up 
by love and music, art has rescued from the common 
decay. There were the members of that brilliant society 
which quoted, criticised, and_ exchanged repartees, under 
the rich peacock hangings of ]\Irs. Montague. And there 

♦ Gibbon. 

t Samuel Parr, a clergyman and man of learning, but hardly the “ greatest 
scholar of the age.” 

J Mrs. Fitzherbert, whom the Prince of Wales was supposed to have secretly 
married. 

§ The first wife of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, a woman remarkable for 
beauty and musical genius, whom Sir Joshua Reynolds had painted as St. 
Cecilia. 


THE TRIAL OF WARREN HASTINGS. 


251 


the ladies, whose lips, more persuasive than those of Fox 
Iiimselt, had carried the Westminster election against 
palace and treasury, shone round Georgiana, Duchess of 
Devonshire. 

The sergeants made proclamation. Hastings advanced 
to the bar, and bent his knee. The culprit was indeed 
not unworthy of that great presence. He had ruled an 
extensive and populous country, had made laws and trea¬ 
ties, had sent forth armies, had set up and pulled down 
princes. And in his high place he had so borne himself 
that all had feared him, that most liad loved him, and 
that hatred itself could deny liim no title to glory, except 
virtue. 

He looked like a great man, and not like a bad man. 

A person small and emaciated, yet deriving dignity from 
a calt-riage which, while it indicated deference to the court, 
indicated also habitual self-possession and self-respect, a 
high and intellectual forehead, a brow pensive, but not 
gloomy, a mouth of inflexible decision, a face pale and 
worn, but serene, — such was the aspect with which the 
great proconsul presented himself to his judges. 

The charges and the answers of Hastings were first read. 

The ceremony occupied two whole days, and was rendered 
less tedious that it would otherwise have been, by the v 
silver voice and just emphasis of Cowper, the clerk of the V 
court, a near relation of the amiable poet. ’ ^ 

On the third day, Burlce rose. Four sittings were occu¬ 
pied by his opening speech, which was intended to be a 
general introduction to all the charges. - With an exuber¬ 
ance of thought and a splendor of diction which more 
than satisfied the highly raised expectation of the audi¬ 
ence, he described the character and institutions of the 
natives of India, recounted the circumstances in which 



252 


THE SIXTH READER. 


tlie Asiatic empire of Britain had originated, and set forth 
the constitution of the company, and of the English pres- 
icl^cies. 

Having thus attempted to communicate to his hearers 
an idea of Eastern society as vivid as that which existed 
in his own mind, he proceeded to arraign the administra¬ 
tion of Hastings, as systematically conducted in defiance 
of morality and public law>/ The energy and pathos of 
the great orator extorted expressions of unwonted admira¬ 
tion from the stem and hostile chancellor,* and, for a 
moment, seemed to pierce even the resolute heart of the 
defendant/ The ladies in the galleries, unaccustomed to 
such displays of eloquence, excited by the solemnity of 
the occasion, and perhaps not unwilling to display their 
taste and^ sensibility, were in a state of uncontrollable 
emotion^; Handkerchiefs were pulled out; smelling-bot¬ 
tles were handed round; hysterical sobs and screams were 
heard; and Mrs. Sheridan was carried out in a fit. ■ 

At length the orator concluded.' Eaising his voice .till 
the old arches of Irish oak resounded, “ Therefore,'’ said 
he, “ hath it with all confidence been ordered by the Com¬ 
mons of Great Britain, that I impeach Warren Hastings 
of high crimes and misdemeanors. I impeach him in the 
name of the Commons’ House of Parliament, whose trust 
he has betrayed. ' I impeach him in the name of the 
English nation, whose ancient honor he has sullied. I 
impeach him in the name of the people of India, whose 
rights he has trodden under foot, and whose country he 
has turned into a desert. Lastly, in the name of human 
nature itself, in the name of both sexes, in the name of 
every age, in the name of every rank, I impeach the com¬ 
mon enemy and oppressor of all.” 

* Lord Thurlow, a stem, rough man, and friendly to Hastings. 


CHARLES, SUMNER. 


253 


XLIX. — CHARLES SUMNER. 

JOHN G. WHITTIER. 


The following is a portion of a poem written by Mr. Wliittier and read at the 
legislative commemoration of Charles Sumner at Boston, June 9, 1874. “Mother 
State” refers to Massachusetts, “ Auburn’s Field of God” to the cemetery of Mount 
Auburn. . 

4 

“ I am not one who has disgraced beauty of sentiment by deformity of conduct, 
or the maxims of a freeman by the actions of a slave; but, by the grace of God, I 
have kept my life unsullied,” — Milton’s Defeme of the People of England. 


O MOTHER State ! the winds of March 
Blew chill o’er Auburn’s Field of God, 
"Where, slow, beneath a leaden arch 
Of sky, thy mourning children trod. 


And now, with all thy woods in leaf. 
Thy fields in flower, beside thy dead 
Thou sittest, in thy robes of grief, 

A Rachel yet uncomforted ! 


And once again the organ swells, \ 

Once more the flag is half-way hung, 

And yet again the mournful bells 
In all thy steeple-towers are rung. 


No trumpet sounded in his ear, 

He saw not Sinai’s cloud and flame. 

But never yet to Hebrew seer 
A clearer voice of duty came. 

God said ; “ Break thou these yokes; undo 
These heavy burdens. T ordain 
A work to last thy whole life through, 

A ministry of strife and pain. 


254 


THE SIXTH READER. 


“ Forego thy dreams of lettered ease, 

Put thou the scholar!s promise by, 

The rights of man are more than these.” 

He heard, and answered : “ Here am I! ” 

He set his face against the blast. 

His feet against the flinty shard,* 

Till the hard service grew, at last. 

Its own exceeding great reward. 

Peyond the dust and smoke he saw 
The sheaves of freedom’s large increase, 

The holy fanes of equal law. 

The New Jerusalem of peace. 

The first to smite, the first to spare ; 

When once the hostile ensigns fell, 

He stretched out hands of generous care 
To lift the foe he fought so w’ell. 

For there was nothing base or small 
Or craven in his soul’s broad plan ; 

Forgiving all things personal. 

He hated only wrong to man. 

The old traditions of his State, 

The memories of her great and good. 

Took from his life a fresher date. 

And in himself embodied stood. 

If than Pome’s tribunes statelier 
He wore his senatorial robe. 

His lofty port was all for her, 

The one dear spot on all the globe. 


* A fragment of any brittle substance. 


CHARLES SUMNER. 


255 


Proud was he 1 If his presence kept 
Its grandeur whereso’er he trod, 

As if from Plutarch’s gallery stepped 
The hero and the demigod, 

Hone failed, at least, to reach his ear, 

Hor want nor woe appealed in vain; 

The homesick soldier knew his cheer. 

And blessed him from his ward of pain. 

ife cherished, void of selfish ends, 

The social courtesies that bless 

And sweeten life, and loved his friends 
With most unworldly tenderness. 

His state-craft was the Golden Pule; 

His right of vote a sacred trust; 

Clear, over threat and ridicule. 

All heard his challenge, “ Is it just h ” 

Long shall the good State’s annals tell, 

Her children’s children long be taught. 

How, praised or blamed, he guarded well 
The trust he neither shunned nor sought. 


The lifted sword above her shield 

With jealous care shall guard his fame; 
The pine-tree on her ancient field 

To all the winds shall speak his name. 

0 State, so passing rich before. 

Who now shall doubt thy highest claim 1 
The world that counts thy jewels o’er 
Shall longest pause at Sumner’s name. 


256 


THE SIXTH READER. 


L. — JUNE. 

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. ' 

A nd what is so rare as a'day in June? 

Then, if ever, come perfect days ; 

Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, 

And over it softly her warm ear lays : 

Whether we look or whether we listen. 

We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; 

Every clod feels a stir of might. 

An instinct within it that reaches and towers 
And, groping blindly above it for light. 

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers j 
The flush of life may well be seen 
Thrilling hack over hills and valleys ; 

The cowslip startles in meadows green. 

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice. 

And there’s never a leaf nor a blade too mean 
To be some happy creature’s palace : 

The little bird sits at his door in the sun. 

Atilt like a blossom among the leaves. 

And lets his illumined being o’errun 
With the deluge of summer it receives ; 

His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings. 

And tlie heart in her dumb breast flutters and sinscs : 
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, — 
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best ] 

Now is the high-tide of the year. 

And whatever of life hath ebbed away 
Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer 
Into every bare inlet and creek and bay. 

Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it. 

We are happy now because God wiUs it; 


JUNK 257 

No matter how barren the past may have been, 

’T is enough for us now that the leaves are green; 

"VVe sit in the warm shade and feel riifht well 

O 

How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell; 

We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing 
That skies are clear and grass is growing; 

The breeze comes whispering in our ear 
That dandelions are blossoming near. 

That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing. 

That the river is bluer than the sky. 

That the robin is plastering his house hard by; 

And if the breeze kept the good news back. 

For other couriers we should not lack; 

We could guess it all by yon heifer’s lowing, — 

And hark ! how clear bold chanticleer. 

Warmed with the new wine of the year. 

Tells all in his lusty crowing ! 

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; 

Everything is happy now. 

Everything is upward striving; 

’T is as easy now for the heart to be true 
As for grass to be green or skies to be blue, — 

’T is the natural way of living : 

Who knows whither the clouds have fled 'I 
In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake. 

And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, 

The heart forgets its sorrows and ache; 

The soul partakes the season’s youth. 

And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe 
Lie deep ’neath a silence pure and smooth. 

Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. 

What wonder if Sir Launfil now 
Itemembered the keeping ol his vow ? 


258 


THE SIXTH READER, 


LI—EULOGY ON" O’CONNELL. 


W. H. SEWARD. 

William Henry Seward was bom in Florida, New York, May 16, 1801; was 
graduated at Union College in 1819, and admitted to the bar in 1822. He died at 
Auburn, New York, October 10, 1872. Without neglecting his professional duties, 
he early engaged in politics, and in 1838 was chosen governor of New York by the 
Whigs, and was re-elected in 1846. In Febraary, 1849, he was chosen to the Senate 
of the United States, and continued a member of that body till the election of 
" President Lincoln, when he became a member of his Cabinet as Secretary of State. 
During his career in the Senate he was remarkable for the ability and consistency 
with which he maintained the policy and principles of the antislavery party, but he 
by no means confined his attention to this subject, but spoke upon a variety of ques¬ 
tions connected with the commercial and industrial relations of the country. He was 
a man of patient and persevering industry, and his speeches, which were always care¬ 
fully prepared, are honorably distinguished for their decorum of tone and their great 
literary merit. His writings have been published in four octavo volumes, with a 
biographical memoir and historical notes. * 

The following extracts are from a eulogy delivered before the Irish citizens of New 
York, upon the life and character of Daniel O’Connell, the distinguished champion 
of the liberties of Ireland. This was one of his most powerful efforts, full of elo¬ 
quent allusions, historic references, and touches of tender pathos and sorrow. 

T HEEE is sad news from Genoa. An aged and weary 
pilgrim, who can travel no farther, passes beneath 
the gate of one of her ancient palaces,^saying, with pious 
resignation, as he enters its silent chambers, “Well, it is 
God’s will that I shall never see Rome.- I am disap¬ 
pointed, but I am ready to die.” 

The “ superb,” though fading queen of the Mediter¬ 
ranean holds anxious watch through ten long days over 
that majestic stranger’s wasting frame. And now death 
'is there, — the Liberator of Ireland has^ sunk t^ rest in 
the cradle of Columbus. 

Coincidence beautiful and most sublime! It was the 
very day set apart by the elder daughter of the Church 
for prayer and sacrifice throughout the world for the 
children of the sacred island, perishing by famine and 
pestilence in their houses and in their native fields, and 


c 


(l^ v ' ' 

I 

EULOGY ON UCONNELL. 259 . 

on their crowded paths of exile, on the sea and in the 
havens, and on the lakei and along the rivers of this far- 
distant land. The chimes rung out by pity for his coun¬ 
trymen were O’Cennell’s fitting knell; his soul went 
forth on clouds of incense that rose from altars of Chris¬ 
tian charity; and the mournful anthems which recited 
the faith, and the virtue, and the endurance of Ireland 
were his becoming requiem. 

But has not O’Connell done more than enough for 
fame ? On the lofty brow of Monticello, under a green 
old oak, is a block of granite, and underneath 0,re tlie 
ashes of Jefferson. Bead tlie epitaph, — it is the sage’s 
claim to immortality: “ Author of the Declaration of 

Independence, and of the Statute for Eeligious Liberty.” 

Stop now and write an epitaph for Daniel O’Connell: 
“ He gave liberty of conscience to Europe, and renewed 
the revolutions of the kingdoms towards universal free¬ 
dom, which began in America and had been arrested by 
the anarchy of France.” 

Let the statesmen of the age read that epitaph and be 
humble. Let the kings and aristocracies of the earth 
read it and tremble. 

Who has ever accomplished so much for human free¬ 
dom with means so feeble ? Who but he has ever given 
liberty to a people by the mere utterance of his voice, 
without an army, a navy, or revenues, — without a sword, 
a spear, or even a shield ? 

Who but he ever subverted tyranny, and saved the 
lives of the oppressed, and yet spared the oppressor ? 

Who but he ever detached from a venerable constitu¬ 
tion a column of aristocracy, dashed it to tlie earth, and 
yet left the ancient fabric stronger and more beautiful 
than before ? 


260 


THE SIXTH READER. 


Who but he has ever lifted up seven millions of people 
from the debasement of ages, to the dignity of freedom, 
without exacting an ounce of gold, or wasting the blood 
of one human heart ? 

Whose voice yet lingers like O’Connell’s in the ear of 
tyrants, making them sink with fear of change; and in 
the ear of the most degraded slaves on earth, awaking 
hopes of freedom ? 

Who before him has brought the schismatics of two 
centuries together, conciliating them at the altar of uni¬ 
versal liberty ? Who but he ever brought Papal Eome 
and Protestant America to burn incense together? 

It was O’Connell’s mission to teach mankind that Lib¬ 
erty was not estranged from Christianity, as was pro¬ 
claimed • by revolutionary Prance; that she was not 
divorced from law and public order; that she was not 
a demon like Moloch, requiring to be propitiated with the 
blood of human sacrifice; that democracy is the daughter 
of peace, and, like true religion, worketh by love. 

I see in Catholic emancipation, and in the repeal of 
the act of union between Great Britain and Ireland, only 
incidents of an all-pervading phenomenon, — a phenome¬ 
non of mighty interest, but not portentous of evil. It is 
the universal dissolution of monarchical and aristocratical 
governments, and the establishment of pure democracies 
in their place. 

I know this change must come, for even the menaced 
governments feel and confess it. I know that it will be 
resisted, for it is not in the nature of power to relax. It 
is a fearful inquiry. How shall that change be passed ? 
Shall there never be an end to devastation and carnao-e ? 

O 

Is every step of human progress in the future, as in the 
past, to be marked by blood ? 


EULOGY ON <yCONNELL. 


261 


Must the nations of the earth, after groaning for ages 
under vicious institutions established witliout their con¬ 
sent, wade through deeper seas to reach that condition 
of more perfect liberty to which they are so rapidly, so 
irresistibly impelled ? 

Or shall they be able to change their forms of govern¬ 
ment by slow and measured degrees, without entirely or 
all at once subverting them, and from time to time to re¬ 
pair their ancient constitutions so as to adapt them peace¬ 
fully to the progress of the age, the diffusion of knowledge, 
the cultivation of virtue, and the promotion of happiness? 

When that crisis shall come, the colossal fabric of tlie 
British Empire will have given way under its always 
accumulating weight. I see England, then, in solitude 
and in declining greatness, as Eome was when her prov¬ 
inces were torn away, — as Spain now is since the loss 
of the Indies. I see Ireland, invigorated by the severe 
experience of a long though peaceful revolution, extend¬ 
ing her arms east and west in fraternal embrace towards 
new rising states, her resources restored and improved, 
her people prosperous and happy, and her institutions 
again shedding the lights of piety, art, and freedom over 
the world. 

Come forward, then, ye nations who are trembling 
between the dangers of anarchy and the pressure of des¬ 
potism, and hear a voice that addresses the Liberator 
of Ireland from the caverns of Silence where Prophecy 
is born: — 

“To thee, now sainted spirit. 

Patriarch of a wide-spreading family, 

Remotest lands and unborn times shall turn, 

Whether they would restore or build. To thee ! 

As one who rightly taught how Zeal should burn ; 

As one who drew from out Faith’s holiest urn 
Tlie purest streams of patient energy.” 


262 


THE SIXTH READER. 


LIL —HUBERT AND ARTHUR 


SHAKESPEARE. 


The following scene is from “ King John.” Arthur, a young boy, is lawful heir to 
the crown of England, which has been usurped by his uncle, the king, who employs 
Hubert to put out his nephew’s eyes. 

Prince Arthur, Hubert, and Attendants. 

Scene, — A room in the castie, Northampton. 

Enter Hubert and two Attendants. 

UBERT. Heat me these irons hot; and look thou stand 



JL Within the arras when I strike my foot 
Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth, 

And bind the boy, which you shall find with me. 

East to the chair : be heedful. Hence, and watch. 

1st Attendant. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed. 
Hub. Uncleanly scruples ! Fear not you : look to’t. 


[Exeunt Attendants. 


Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you. 


Enter Arthur. 


Arthur. Good morrow, Hubert. 


Hub. 


Good morrow, little prince 


Arth. As little prince (having so great a title 
To be more prince) as may be. — You are sad. 


Hub. Indeed, I have been merrier. 
Arth. 


Mercy on me! 


!Methinks nobody should be sad but I: 

Yet i remember when I was in France, 
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night, 
Only for wantonness. By my Christendom, t 
So I were out of prison, and kept sheep, 

* Tapestry, or hangings, for rooms, 
t Christening, baptism. 


HUBERT AND ARTHUR, 


2G3 


I should be merry as the day is long; 

And so I would be here, but that I doubt 
My uncle practises more harm to me : 

He is afraid of me, and I of him. 

Is it my fault that I was Geoffrey’s son “I 
Ho, indeed, is’t not; and I would to Heaven 
I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert. 

Hub. If I talk to him, with his innocent prate 
He will awake my mercy, which lies dead : 

Therefore I will be sudden, and despatch. (Aside.) 

Arth. Are you sick, Hubert 1 You look pale to-day : 

In sooth, I would you were a little sick, 

That I might sit all night, and watch with you : 

I warrant, I love you more than you do me. 

Hub. His words do take possession of my bosom. — 

Read here, young Arthur. (Showing a paper.) 

How now, foolish rheum !'^ (Aside.) 
Turning dispiteous! torture out of door! 

I must be brief; lest resolution drop 

Out at mine eyes in tender womanish tears. — 

Can you not read it 1 Is it not fair writ 1 
Arth. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect. 

Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes 1 
Hub. Young boy, I must. 

Arth. And will you 1 

Hub. And I will. 

Arth. Have you the heart ? When your head did but ache, 
I knit my handkerchief about your brows 
(The best I hact, a princess wrought it me), 

And I did never ask it you again : 

And with my hand at midnight held your head; 

And, like the watchful minutes to the hour. 

Still and anon cheered up the heavy time; 

Saying, What lack youl and. Where lies your grief? 

t Unpitying, cruel. 


* Tears. 


264 


THE SIXTH READER. 


Or, What good love may I perform for you 1 
Many a poor man’s son would have lain still, 

And ne’er have spoke a loving word to you : 

But you at your sick service had a prince. 

Nay, you may think my love was crafty love. 

And call it cunning : do, an if you will. 

If Heaven he pleased that you must use me ill. 

Why, then you must. — Will you put out mine eyes ? 

These eyes, that never did, nor never shall. 

So much as frown on you % 

Hub. I have sworn to do it; 

And with hot irons must I burn them out. 

Arth. Ah, none but in this iron age would do it! 

The iron of itself, though heat red-hot. 

Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears, 

And quench his fiery indignation. 

Even in the matter of mine innocence : 

Nay, after that, consume away in rust. 

But for containing fire to harm mine eye. 

Are you more stubborn-hard than hammered iron ? 

An if an angel should have come to me. 

And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes, 

I would not have believed him. No tongue but Hubert’s — * 
Hub. Come forth. {Stamps.) 

Re-enter Attendants, with cord, irom, etc. 

Do as I bid you do. ^ 

Arth. 0, save me, Hubert, save me! My eyes are out. 
Even with the fierce looks of these bloody meit. 

Hub. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here. 

Arth. Alas, what need you be so boisterous-rough % 

* This line has been rear! variously. We give it as it is printed in Charles 
Knight’s pictorial edition. “Arthur begins a fresh sentence, which is inter¬ 
rupted by Hubert’s stamping. He is about to say, ‘ No tongue but Hubert’s 
would have made me believe it.’ ” 


HUBERT AED ARTHUR. 


2G5 


I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still. 

For Heaven’s sake, Hubert, let me not be bound! 

Hay, hear me, Hubert! drive these men away, 

And I will sit as quiet as a lamb; 

I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word. 

Nor look upon the iron angerly; 

Thrust but these men away, and I ’ll forgive you. 

Whatever torment you do put me to. 

Hub. Go, stand within ; let me alone with him. 

1st Attend. I am best pleased to be from such a deed. 

[Exeunt Attendants. 

Arth. Alas ! I then have chid away my friend : 

He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart: — 

Let him come back, that his compassion may 
Give life to yours. 

Hub, Come, boy, prepare yourself. 

Arth, Is there no remedy h 

Hub, ■ . 4 None but to lose your eyes. 

Arth, 0 Heaven ! — that there were but a mote in yours, 

A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair. 

Any annoyance in that precious sense ! 

Then, feeling what small things are boisterous there. 

Your vile intent must needs seem horrible. 

Hub. Is this your promise 1 Go to ; hold your tongue. 
Arth. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues 
Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes : 

Let me not hold my tongue; let me not, Hubert! 

Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue. 

So I may keep mine eyes : 0, spare mine eyes; 

Though to no use but still to look on you! 

Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold. 

And would not harm me. 

Hub. I can heat it, boy. 

Arth. No, in good sooth ; the fire is dead with grief, — 
Being create for comfort, to be used 


266 


THE SIXTH READER. 


In undeserved extremes : see else yourself; 

There is no malice in this burning coal; 

The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out, 

And strewed repentant ashes on his head. 

Hub. But with my breath I can revive it, boy. 

Arth. And if you do, you will but make it blush. 

And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert; 

Nay, it, perchance, will sparkle in your eyes; 

And, like a dog, that is compelled to fight. 

Snatch at his master that doth tarre ^ him on. 

All things that you should use to do me wrong 

Deny their office ; only you do lack 

That mercy which fierce fire and iron extends, — 

Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses< 

Hub. W ell, see to live; I will not touch thine eyes 
For all the treasure that thine uncle owes;t 
Yet.am I sworn, and I did purpose, boy. 

With this same very iron to burn them out. 

Arth. 0, now you look like Hubert! all this while 
You were disguised. 

Hub. Peace : no more. Adieu; 

Your uncle must not know but you are dead; 

I ’ll fill these dogged spies with false reports. 

And, pretty child, sleep doubtless, and secure. 

That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world. 

Will not offend thee. 

Arth. 0 Heaven ! — I thank you, Hubert. 

Hub. Silence : no more. Go closely in with me : 

Much danger do I undergo for thee. [Exeitnt. 


* Urge or set him on. 


t Owns. 


WAliliEN’S AVJJRKSS. 


267 



LIII. — WAEEEN’S ADDEESS BEFOEE THE 
BATTLE OF BUNKEE HILL. 

PIERPONT. 

S TAND ! the ground’s your own, my braves ! 

Will ye give it up to slaves 1 
Will ye hope for greener graves 1 
Hope ye mercy still ? 

What’s the mercy despots feel! 

Hear it in that battle peal! 

Eead it on yon bristling steel! 

Ask it — ye who will. 

Fear ye foes who kill for hire 1 
Will ye to your homes retire ] 

Look behind you ! they ’re afire ! 

And, before you, see 
- Who have done it! — From the vale 
On they come ! — and will ye quail 1 
Lea.den rain and iron hail 
Let their welcome be ! 

In the God of battles trust! 

Die we may, — and die we must: 

But, 0, Avhere can dust to dust 
Be consigned so well. 

As where heaven its dews shall shed 
On the martyred patriot’s bed, 

And the rocks shall raise their head 
Of his deeds to tell! 




268 


THE SIXTH READER. 


LIV. — INCENTIVES TO DUTY. 

SUMNER. 

Charles Sumner was born in Boston, January 6, 1811, and was graduated at 
Harvard College in 1830. He was admitted to the bar in 1834, and in 1837 visited 
Europe, where he remained till 1840, travelling in Italy, Germany, and France, and 
residing nearly a year in England. On the Fourth of July, 1845, he imonounced be¬ 
fore the municipal authorities of Boston an oration on ‘ ‘ The True Grandeur of 
Nations,” which was an eloquent argument against the war-system of nations, and in 
favor of peaceful arbitration in the settlement of international questions. This 
oration was widely circiUated, both in America and England. Having become 
earnestly engaged in the antislavery cause, he was chosen to the Senate of the United 
States fi’om the State of Massachusetts in the winter of 1851, and continued a mem¬ 
ber of that body until his death, March 11, 1874. He was well known for the energy 
and eloquence with which he has assailed the institution of slavery. His works, con¬ 
sisting of speeches jiud occasional addresses, have been published in three volumes, 
and are remarkable for fervid eloquence and abundant illustration. 

The following extract is the conclusion of a discourse pronounced before the Phi- 
Beta-Kappa Society of Harvard College, at their anniversary, August 27, 1846, en¬ 
titled “The Scholar, the Jurist, the Artist, the Philanthropist,” and in commemo¬ 
ration of four deceased members of the society, John Pickering, Joseph Story, 
Washington AUston, and William Ellery Channing. 

T hus have I attempted, humbly and affectionately, 
to bring before you the images of our departed 
brothers, while I dwelt on the great causes in which their 
lives were made manifest. Servants of Knowledge, of 
Justice, of Beauty, of Love, they have ascended to the 
great Source of Knowledge, J'nstice, Beauty, Love. Each 
of our brothers is removed; but though dead, yet speak- 
eth, informing our understandings, strengthening our sense 
of justice, refining our tastes, enlarging our sympathies. 
The body dies; but the page of the Scholar, the inter¬ 
pretation of the Jurist, the creation of the Artist, the 
beneficence of the Philanthropist, cannot die. 

I have dwelt upon their lives and characters, less in 
grief for what we have lost, than in gratitude for what, 
we so long possessed, and still retain, in their precious 
exani^^le. In proud recollection of her departed children, 


269 


h\ 

INCENTIVES TO DUTY. 

Alina Mater might well exclaim, in those touching words 
of paternal grief, that she would not give her dead sons 
for any living sons in Christendom. Pickering, Story, 
Allston, Channing ! A grand Quaternion ! Each, in his 
peculiar sphere, was foremost in his country. Eacli 
might have said, what the modesty of Demosthenes did 
not forbid him to boast, that, through him, his country 
had been crowned abroad. Their labors were wide as the 
Commonwealth of Letters, Laws, Art, Humanity, and have 
found acceptance wherever these have found dominion. 

Their lives, which overflow with instruction, teach one 
persuasive lesson, which speaks alike to all of every calling 
and pursuit, — not to live for ourselves alone. They lived 
for Knowledge, Justice, Beauty, Humanity. Withdraw¬ 
ing from the strifes of the world, from the allurements of 
office, and the rage for gain, they consecrated themselves 
to the pursuit of excellence, and each, in his own voca¬ 
tion, to beneficent labor. They were all philanthropists; 
for the labors of all promoted the welfare and happiness 
of mankind. 

In the contemplation of their generous, unselfish lives, 
we feel the insignificance of office and wealth, which men 
so hotly pursue. What is office ? and what is wealth ? 
They are the expressions and representatives of what is 
present and fleeting only, investing their possessoi, per¬ 
haps, with a brief and local regard. But let this not be 
exaggerated 5 let it not be confounded with the serene 
fame which is the reflection of important labors in great 
causes. The street-lights, within the circle of their 
nightly scintillation, seem to outshine the distant stars, 
observed of men in all lands and times; but gas-lamps 
are not to be mistaken for the celestial luminaries. 

They who live only for wealth and the things of this 


270 


THE SIXTH READER. 


world follow shadows, neglecting the great realities wliich 
are eternal on earth and in heaven. After the perturba¬ 
tions of life, all its accumulated possessions must be 
resigned, except those alone which have been devoted to 
God and mankind. What we do for ourselves, perishes 
with this mortal dust; what we do for others, lives in the 
grateful hearts of all who feel or know the benefaction. 
Worms may destroy the body; but they cannot consume 
such a fame. It is fondly cherished on earth, and never 
forgotten in heaven. 

The selfish struggles of the crowd, the clamors of a 
false patriotism, the suggestions of a sordid ambition, 
cannot obscure that great commanding duty which en¬ 
joins perpetual labor, without distinction of country, of 
color, or of race, for the welfare of the whole Human 
Family. In this mighty Christian cause. Knowledge, 
Jurisprudence, Art, Philanthropy, all are blessed minis¬ 
ters. More puissant than the Sword, they shall lead 
mankind from the bondage of error into that service 
which is perfect freedom. Our departed brothers join in 
summoning you to this gladsome obedience. Their ex¬ 
amples speak for them. Go forth into the many man¬ 
sions of the house of lif(^: scholars ! store them with 
learning; jurists! build tliem witli justice ; artists ! adorn 
them with beauty; philanthropists! let them resound 
with love. Be servants of truth, each in his vocation; 
doers of the word and not hearers only. Be sincere, pure 
in heart, earnest, enthusiastic. A virtuous entliusiasm is 
always self-forgetful and noble. It is the only inspiration 
now vouchsafed to man. Like Pickering, blend humility 
with learning. Like Story, ascend above the Present, in 
place and time. Like Allston, regard fame only as the 
eternal shadow of excellence. Like Channing, bend in 


INCENTIVES TO DUTY. 


271 


adoration before tlie right. Cultivate alike the wisdom 
of experience and the wisdom of hope. Mindful of the 
Future, do not neglect the Past; awed by the majesty of 
Antiquity, turn not with indifference from the Future. 
True wisdom looks to the ages before us, as well as behind 
us. Like the Janus of the Capitol, one front thoughtfully 
regards the Past, rich with experience, with memories, 
with the priceless traditions of virtue; the other is ear¬ 
nestly directed to the All Hail Hereafter, richer still with 
its transcendent hopes and unfulfilled prophecies. 

We stand on the threshold of a new age, which is 
preparing to recognize new influences. The ancient 
divinities of Violence and Wrong are retreating to their 
kindred darkness. 

There’s a fount about to stream. 

There ’s a light about to beam, 

There’s a warmth about to glow, 

There ’s a flower about to blow ; 

There’s a midnight blackness changing 
Into gray ; 

Men of thought, and men of action, 

Clear the way. 

Aid the dawning, tongue and pen ; 

Aid it, hopes of honest men ; 

Aid it, paper; aid it, type ; 

Aid it, for the hour is ripe. 

And our earnest must not slacken 
Into play; 

Men of thought, and men of action, 

Clear the way. 

Tlie age of Chivalry has gone. An age of Humanity has 
come. The horse, whose importance, more than liuman, 
gave the name to that early period of gallantry and war, 
now yields his foremost place to man. In serving him. 


272 


THE SIXTH READER. 


in promoting his elevation, in contributing to his welfare, 
in doing him good, there are fields of bloodless triumph, 
nobler far than any in which the bravest knight ever 
conquered. Here are spaces of labor, wide as the world, 
lofty as heaven. Let me say, then, in the benison once 
bestowed upon the youthful knight, — Scholars ! jurists ! 
artists 1 philanthropists ! heroes of a Christian age, com¬ 
panions of a celestial knighthood, “ Go forth; be brave, 
loyal, and successful! ” 

And may it be our office to-day to light a fresh beacon- 
fire on the venerable walls of Harvard, sacred to Truth, 
to Christ, and the Church, — to Truth Immortal, to Christ 
the Comforter, to the Holy Church Universal. Let the 
flame spread from steeple to steeple, from hill to hill, 
from island to island, from continent to continent, till 
the long lineage of fires shall illumine all the nations of 
the earth; animating them to the holy contests of Knowl¬ 
edge, Justice, Beauty, Love. 


LV. —THE WESTEKK POSTS. 

^ . AMES. 

Fisher Ames was born in Dedham, Massachusetts, Ai>ril 9, 1758; and died in the 
same place, July 4, 1808. Wlien the Federal government went into operation, he was 
elected the first representative of his district in Congress, and retained his seat through 
the whole of the administration of Washington, of whose policy and measures he was 
an ardent supporter. He was a very eloquent man, remarkable alike for his readiness 
in debate and the finished beauty of his prepared speeches. He was a copious writer 
upon political subjects, and his essays are remarkable for vigor of thought and bril¬ 
liant and animated style. • In private life Mr. Ames was one of the most amiable and 
delightful of men, and possessed of rare conversational powers. 

The speech from which the following extract is taken was delivered in the House 
of Representatives, April 28, 1796, in support of a resolution in favor of passing the 
laws necessary for carrying into effect a treaty recently negotiated with Great Britain 
by Mr. Jay. By this treaty. Great Britain agreed to surrender certain posts on the 
western frontier, which she still held. Mr. Ames argued that the possession of these 
posts was essential for the preservation of the Western settlers against the Indians. 




THE WESTERN POSTS. 


273 


I F any, against all these proofs, should maintain that 
the peace with the Indians will be stable without the 
posts, to them I will urge another reply. From argu¬ 
ments calculated to produce conviction, I will appeal 
directly to the hearts of those who hear me, and ask 
whether it is not already planted there ? I resort espe¬ 
cially to the convictions of the Western gentlemen, 
whether, supposing no posts and no treaty, the settlers 
will remain in security ? Can they take it upon them 
to say, that an Indian peace, under these circumstances, 
will prove firm ? No, sir, it will not be peace, but a 
sword; it will be no better than a lure to draw victims 
within the reach of the tomahawk. 

On this theme my emotions are unutterable. If I 
could find words for them, if my powers bore any pro¬ 
portion to my zeal, I would swell my voice to such a 
note of remonstrance it should reach every log-house 
beyond the mountains. I would say to the inhabitants: 
Wake from your false security; your cruel dangers, your 
more cruel apprehensions, are soon to he renewed; the 
wounds, yet unhealed, are to be torn open again ; in the 
daytime, your path through the woods will be ambushed; 
the darkness of midnight will glitter with the blaze of 
your dwellings. You are a father, — the blood of your 
sons shall fatten your cornfield. You are a mother,— 
the war-whoop shall wake the sleep of the cradle. 

On this subject you need not suspect any deception on 
your feelings ; it is a spectacle of horror which cannot he 
overdrawn. If you have nature in your hearts, they will 
speak a language, compared with which all I have said or 
can say will be poor and frigid. 

Will it be whispered that the treaty has made me a 
new champion for the protection of the frontiers ? It is 


274 


THE SIXTH READER. 


known that my voice, as well as vote, has been uni¬ 
formly given in conformity with the ideas I have ex¬ 
pressed. Protection is the right of the frontiers; it is 
our duty to give it. 

Who will accuse me of wandering out of the subject ? 
Who will say that I exaggerate the tendencies of our 
measures ? Will any one answer by a sneer that this 
is all idle preaching ? Will any one deny that we are 
bound, and I would hope to good purpose, by the most 
solemn sanctions of duty, for the vote we give ? Are 
despots alone to be reproached for unfeeling indifference 
to the tears and blood of their subjects ? Are republicans 
irresponsible ? Have the principles on which you ground 
' ther eproach upon cabinets and kings no practical influ¬ 
ence, no binding force ? Are they merely themes of idle 
declamation, introduced to decorate the morality of a 
newspaper essay, or to furnish petty topics of harangue 
from the windows of that State House ? I trust it is 
neither too presumptuous nor too late to ask, Can you 
put the dearest interest of society at risk, without guilt 
and without remorse ? 

It is vain to offer as an excuse that public men are not 
to be reproached for the evils that may happen to ensue 
Irom their measures. This is very true, where they are 
unforeseen or inevitable. Those I have depicted are not 
unforeseen ; they are so far from inevitable, we are going 
to bring them into being by our vote; we choose the con¬ 
sequences, and become as justly answerable for them as 
for the measure that we know will produce ^them. 

By rejecting the posts, we light the savage flres, we 
bind the victims. This day we undertake to render an 
account to the widows and orphans whom our decision 
will make; to the wretches that will be roasted at the 


THE FUTURE OF AMERICA. 


275 


stake; to our country; and I do not deem it too serious 
to say, to conscience and to God. We are answerable; 
and if duty be anything more than a word of imposture, 
if conscience be not a bugbear, we are preparing to make 
ourselves as wretched as our country. 

There is no mistake in this case, there can be none; 
experience has already been the prophet of events, and 
the cries of our future victims have already reached us. 
The Western inhabitants are not a silent and uncomplain¬ 
ing sacrifice. The voice of humanity issues from the 
shade of the wilderness; it exclaims, that while one 
hand is held up to reject this treaty, the other grasps a 
tomahawk. It summons our imagination to the scenes 
that will open. It is no great effort of tlie imagination 
to conceive that events so near are already begun. I can 
fancy that I listen to the yells of savage vengeance and 
the shrieks of torture; already they seem to sigh in the 
western wind ; already they mingle with every echo from 
the mountains. 




LYI. —THE FUTUEE OF AMEEICA. 

WEBSTER. 

Conclusion of a discourse delivered at Plymouth, Massachusetts, December 22, 
1820, in commemoration of the first settlement in New England. 

L et us not forget the religious character of our origin. 

Our fathers were brouglit hither by their high ven¬ 
eration for the Christian religion. They journeyed in its 
light, and labored in its hope They sought to incorpo¬ 
rate its principles with the elements of their society, and 
to diffuse its influence through all their institutions, civil. 





I V 

THE SIXTH READER. 


political, and literary. Let us cherish these sentiments, 
and extend their influence still more widely; in the full 
conviction that that is the happiest society which partakes 
in the highest degree of the mild and peaceable spirit of 
Christianity. 

The hours of this day are rapidly flying, and this occa¬ 
sion will soon be passed. Neither we nor our children can 
expect to behold its return. They are in the distant regions 
of futurity, they exist only in the all-creating power of 
God, who shall stand here, a hundred years hence, to trace, 
through us, their descent from the PUgrims, and to survey, 
as we have now surveyed, the progress of their country 
during the lapse of a century. 

We would anticipate their concurrence with us in our 
sentiments of deep regard for our common ancestors. We 
would anticipate and partake the pleasure with which 
they will then recount the steps of New England’s ad¬ 
vancement. On the morning of that day, although it will 
not disturb us in our repose, the voice of acclamation and 
gratitude, commencing on the rock of Plymouth, shall be 
transmitted through millions of the sons of the Pilgrims, 
till it lose itself in the murmurs of the Pacific seas. 

We would leave, for the consideration of those who shall 
then occupy our places, some proof that we hold the bless¬ 
ings transmitted from our fathers in just estimation; some 
proof of our attachment to the cause of good government, 
and of civil and religious liberty ; some proof of a sincere 
and ardent desire to promote everything which may enlarge 
the understandings and improve the hearts of men. 

And when, from the long distance of a hundred years, 
they shall look back upon us, they shall know, at least, 
that we possessed affections, which, running backward, and 
warming with gratitude for what our ancestors have done 


THE LAUNCHING OF THE SHIP, 


277 


for our happiness, run forward also to our posterity, and 
meet them with cordial salutation, ere yet they have 
arrived on the shore of being. 

Advance, then, ye future generations! We would hail 
you as you rise in your long succession to fill the places 
which we now fill, and to taste the blessings of existence 
where we are passing, and soon shall have passed, our 
human duration. We bid you welcome to this pleasant 
land of the Fathers. We bid you welcome to the health¬ 
ful skies and the verdant fields of New England. We 
greet your accession to the great inheritance which we 
have enjoyed. We welcome you to the blessings of good 
government and religious liberty. We welcome you to 
the treasures of science and the delights of learning. We 
welcome you to the transcendent sweets of domestic life, 
to the happiness of kindred and parents and children. We 
welcome you to the immeasurable blessings of rational ex¬ 
istence, the immortal hope of Christianity, and the light 
of everlasting Truth! 


LVII. —THE LAUNCHING OF THE SHIR 


LONGFELLOW. 


LL is finished, and at length 



/~\ Has come the bridal day 
Of beauty and of strength. 

To-day the vessel shall be launched ! 
With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched, 
And o’er the bay, * 

Slowly, in all his splendors dight. 

The great sun rises to behold the sight. 




278 


THE SIXTH READER. 


The ocean old, 

Centuries old, 

Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled. 

Paces restless to and fro. 

Up and down the sands of gold. 

His beating heart is not at rest; 

And far and wide 
With ceaseless flow 
His beard of snow 

Heaves with the heaving of his breast. 

He waits impatient for his bride. 

There she stands. 

With her foot upon the sands. 

Decked with flags and streamers gay. 

In honor of her marriage-day. 

Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending. 
Round her like a veil descending. 

Ready to be 

The bride of the gray old sea. 

Then the Master, 

With a gesture of command. 

Waved his hand ; 

And at the word. 

Loud and sudden there was heard, 

All around them and below. 

The sound of hammers, blow on blow, 
Knocking away the shores and spurs. 

And see ! she stirs ! 

She starts, — she moves, — she seems to feel 
The thrill of life along her keel. 

And, spurning with her foot the ground, 
AVith one exulting, joyous bound. 

She leaps into the ocean’s arms. 


THE LAUNCHING OF THE SHIP. 


279 


And lo ! from the assembled crowd 
There rose a shout, prolonged and loud, 

That to the ocean seemed to say, 

“ Take her, 0 bridegroom, old and gray; 
Take her to thy protecting arms. 

With all her youth and all her charms.” 

How beautiful she is ! how fair 
She lies within those arms, that press 
Her form with many a soft caress 
Of tenderness and watchful care ! 

Sail forth into the sea, 0 ship! 

Through wind and wave, right onward steer ! 
The moistened eye, the trembling lip. 

Are not the signs of doubt or fear. 

✓ 

Sail forth into the sea of life, 

0 gentle, loving, trusting wife. 

And safe from all adversity. 

Upon the bosom of that sea 
Thy comings and thy goings be 1 
For gentleness and love and trust 
Prevail o’er angry wave and gust; 

And in the wreck of noble lives 
Something immortal still survives ! 

Thou, too, sail on, 0 Ship of State ! 

Sail on, 0 Union, strong and great! 
Humanity, with all its fears. 

With all the hopes of future years. 

Is hanging breathless on thy fate! 

We know what Master laid thy keel. 

What workmen wrought thy ribs of steel. 
Who made each mast and sail and rope. 
What anvils rang, what hammers beat, 


280 


THE SIXTH READER. 


In what a forge and what a heat 
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope. 

Fear not each sudden sound and shock; 

’T is of the wave, and not the rock ; 

’T is hut the flapping of the sail, 

And not a rent made by the gale. 

In spite of rock and tempest roar, 

In spite of false lights on the shore, 

Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea. 

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee : 

Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears. 
Our faith triumphant o’er our fears, 

Ai’e all with thee, — are all with thee. 




LVIII. —OVER THE RIVER. 

MISS PRIEST. 

Nancy A. W. Priest, author of the following beautiful and touching poem, was bom 
in Hinsdale, New Hampshire, in 1847 ; and died September 21,1870. She received no 
other education than that of a common country district school, and was for several 
years an operative in a factory in Winchendon, Massachusetts. It was during the 
hour’s interval from the toil of the mill that she composed this now famous poem, 
which was written on a piece of brown paper as she sat at a window overlooking the 
river. It was laid aside and forgotten ; but a year later it was accidentally found, and 
published in the “Springfield Republican,” in August, 1867, when the author was 
only twenty years of age. It apjieared over the nom de plume of “ Lizzie Lincoln.” 
Miss Priest afterwards became Mrs. A. C. Wakefield. 

O VER the river they beckon to me, — 

Loved ones who Ve crossed to the farther side; 
The gleam of their snowy robes I see. 

But their voices are drowned in the rushing tide. 

There’s one with ringlets of sunny gold, 

And eyes the reflection of heaven’s own blue ; 

He crossed in the twilight, gray and cold. 

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. 




OVER THE RIVER. 


281 


We sa-vv not the angels who met him there; 

The gates of the city we could not see; 

Over the river, over the river, 

My brother stands waiting to welcome me! 

Over the river the boatman pale 

Carried another, — the household pet; 

Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale, — 
Darling Minnie ! I see her yet. 

She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands, 

And fearlessly entered the phantom bark ; 

We watched it glide from the silver sands. 

And all our sunshine grew strangely dark. 

We know she is safe on the farther side, 

Where all the ransomed and angels be ; 

Over the river, the mystic river. 

My childhood’s idol is waiting for me. 

For none return from those quiet shores. 

Who cross with the boatman cold and pale; 

We hear the dip of the golden oars. 

And catch a gleam of the snowy sail, — 

And lo ! they have passed from our yearning heart; 
They cross the stream, and are gone for aye; 

We may not sunder the veil apart 

That hides from our vision the gates of day ; 

We only know that their bark no more 
May sail with us o’er life’s stormy sea; 

Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore. 

They watch and beckon and wait for me. 

And I sit and think, when the sunset’s gold 
Is flushing river and hill and shore, 

I shall one day stand by the water cold. 

And list for the sound of the boatman s oar ; 


282 


THE SIXTH READER. 


I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail j 
I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand; 
I shall pass from sight, with the boatman pale. 
To the better shore of the spirit-land ; 

I shall know the loved who have gone before, 
And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, 
When over the river, the peaceful river. 

The Angel of Death shall carry me. 






LTX. —HYMN m THE VALLEY OF CHAMOUNL 

COLERIDGB. 

H ast thou a charm to stay the morning-star 

In his steep course h So long he seems to pause 
On thy bald, awful head, 0 sovereign Blanc! 

The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
Eave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form, 

Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines. 

How silently ! Around thee, and above. 

Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black. 

An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it 
As with a wedge. But when I look again. 

It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, 

^ Thy habitation from eternity. 

0 dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense. 

Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer 
I'worshipped the Invisible alone. 

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, — - . 

So sweet we know not we are listening to it, — 

Thou, the mean while, wast blending with my thought. 





HYMN IN THE VALLEY OF CHAMOUNL 

Yea, with my life, and life’s own secret joy; 

Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused. 

Into the mighty vision passing — there. 

As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven. 

Awake, my soul! not only passive praise 
Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears. 

Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy ! Awake, 

Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake ! 
Green vales and icy cliffs ! all join my hymn. 

Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale ! 

0, struggling with the darkness all the night. 

And visited all night by troops of stars. 

Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink, — 
Companion of the morning-star at dawn. 

Thyself earth’s rosy star, and of the dawn 
Co-herald, — wake, 0 wake, and utter praise ! 

Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earths 
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light 1 
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams 1 

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! 

Who called you forth from night and utter death. 
From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 

Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks. 
Forever shattered, and the same forever] 

Who gave you your invulnerable life. 

Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy. 
Unceasing thunder, and eternal foam ] 

And who commanded, — and the silence came, — 

. “ Here let the billows stiffen and have rest ] ” 

. ' Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain’s brow 
Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 



283 


284 


THE SIXTH READER 



Torrents, metliinks, that heard a mighty voice, 
And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge ! 
Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 

Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven 



















































KOSSUTH. 


285 


Beneath the keen full moon 'I Who bade the sun 
Clothe you with rainbows 1 Who, with living flowers 
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet 1 
God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations. 

Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! 

God ! sing, ye meadow streams, with gladsome voice ! 
Ye pine groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! 
And they, too, have a voice, yon- piles of snow. 

And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! 

Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle’s nest! 

Ye eagles, playmates oh the mountain storm! 

Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! 

Ye signs and wonders of the elements ! 

Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise 1 


■• 04 - 


LX. — KOSSUTH. 

HORACE MANN. 

Horace Mann was born in Franklin, Massachusetts, May 4,1796; and died August 
2, 1859. He was graduated at Brown University in 1819, and admitted to the bar in 
1823, and continued in the practice of his profession, first at Dedham, and then at 
Boston, for the next fourteen years. He was, during this period, almost constantly 
a member of the Legislature, and for two years President of the Senate. He was an 
earnest supporter of all legislative measures for the suppression vf vice and crime, 
and the relief of human suffering. In 1837 he was chosen secretary of the Massa¬ 
chusetts Board of Education, and for several years devoted himself to the labors of 
this arduous jjost with characteristic energy and enthusiasm. By his writings, his 
lectures, his correspondence, and his personal influence, he gave a great impulse to 
the cause of education, not merely in Massachusetts, but all over the country. Upon 
the death of John Quincy Adams, in 1848, Mr. Mann was chosen to Congress in his 
place, and remained a member of the House of Representatives till 1852, when he was 
chosen president of Antioch College, Ohio, where he remained till the time of his 
death, laboring with his usual zeal and energy in the cause of education and philan¬ 
thropy. While in Congress he was distinguished for his fervent antislavery zeal. He 
was a man of ardent benevolence and great force of character, and his writings are 
distinguished for fervid eloquence and impassioned earnestness. 



286 


THE SIXTH READER. 


O N the banks of the Danube a young man sprang, at 
a single bound, from comparative obscurity to uni¬ 
versal fame. His heroism organized armies. His genius 
created resources. He abolished the factitious order of 
nobility, but his exalted soul poured the celestial ichor * 
of the gods through ten millions of peasant hearts, and 
made them truly noble. 

Though weak in all but the energies of the soul, yet 
it took two miglity empires to break down his power. 
When he sought refuge in Turkey, the sympathies of 
the civilized world attended his exile. He was invited 
to our shores. He came, and spoke as man never before 
spake. 

It was Byron’s wish that he could condense all the 
raging elements of his soul 

“ Into one word, 

And that one word were lightning.” 

Kossuth found what Byron in vain prayed for; for all 
his words were lightning: not bolts, but a lambent flame, 
which he poured into men’s hearts, not to kill, but to 
animate with a more exalted and a diviner life. 

In cities, where the vast population went forth to hail 
him; in academic halls, where the cultivation of elo¬ 
quence and knowledge is made the business of life; in 
those great gathering-places where the rivers of people 
have their confluence, — he was addressed by the most 
eloquent men whom this nation of orators could select. 
More than five hundred of our select speakers spoke be¬ 
fore him that which they liad laboriously prepared from 
history and embellished from the poets, with severe toil, 
by the long-trimmed lamp. • 

* Pronounced T'kdr. An ethereal fluid that supplied the place of blood in 
the arterial circulation of the ancient gods. 


KOSSUTH, 


287 


Save in two or three peculiar cases, his unprepared 
and improvised replies, in eloquence, in pathos, in dig¬ 
nity, in exalted sentiment, excelled them all. For their 
most profound philosophy he gave them deeper generali¬ 
zation; he out-circuited their widest ranges of thought, 
and in the whole sweep of the horizon revealed glories 
tliey had never seen; and while they checked their ambi¬ 
tious flight beneath the sun, he soared into the empyrean 
and brought down, for the guidance of men’s hearts and 
deeds, the holy light that shines from the face of God. 
Though all their splendors were gathered to a focal point, 
they were outshone by his effulgence. His immortal 
theme was Liberty. Liberty for the nations. Liberty for 
the people. 

The person of this truly noble Hungarian has departed 
from our shores, but he has left a spirit behind him that 
will never die. He has scattered seeds of liberty and 
truth, whose flowers and fruit will become honors and 
glories amaranthine. I trust he goes to mingle in sterner 
scenes; I trust he goes to battle for the right, not with 
the tongue and pen alone, but with all the weapons that 
freedom can forge and wield. 

Before the Divine government I bow in reverence and 
adoration; but it tasks all my philosophy and all my 
religion to believe that the despots of Europe have not 
exercised their irresponsible and cruel tyrannies too long. 
It seems too long since Charles was brought to the axe 
and Louis to the guillotine. Liberty, humanity, justice, 

demands more modern instances. 

The time has fully come when the despot, not the 
patriot, should feel the executioner’s steel or lead. The 
time has fully come when, if the oppressed demand 
their inalienable and Heaven-born rights of theii op- 


288 


THE SIXTH READER 


pressors, and this demand is denied, that they should say, 
not exactly in the language of Patrick Henry, “ Give me 
liberty, or give me death ” ; that was noble language in its 
day, but we have now reached an advanced stage in 
human developments, and the time has fully come when 
the oppressed, if their rights are forcibly denied them, 
should say to the oppressor, “ Give me liberty, or I will 
give you death ! ” 


LXI. — TEUE GEEATNESS. 


CHANNING. 

From an article on the “ Life and Character of Napoleon Bonaparte,” originally pub¬ 
lished in the “ Christian Examiner," in 1827- 


UCH was Napoleon Bonaparte. But some will say 



he was still a great man. This we mean not to deny. 
But we would have it understood, that there are various 
kinds or orders of greatness, and that the highest did not 
belong to Bonaparte. 

There are different ordei*s of greatness. Among these, 
the first rank is unquestionably due to moral greatness, or 
magnanimity; to that sublime energy by which the soul, 
smitten with the love of virtue, binds itself indissolubly, 
for life and for death, to truth and duty; espouses as its 
own the interests of human nature; scorns all meanness, 
and defies all peril; hears in its own conscience a voice 
louder than threatenings and thunders; withstands all 
the powers of the universe which would sever it from the 
cause of freedom and religion; reposes an unfaltering 
trust in God in the darkest hour; and is ever “ready to 
be offered up ” on the altar of its country or of mankind. 

Of this moral greatness, which throws all other forms 





-£' / 


289 


TRUE GREATNESS. 


of greatness into obscurity, we see not a trace in Napo¬ 
leon. Though clothed with the power of a God, the 
thought of consecrating himself to the introduction of a 
new and higher era, to the exaltation of the character 
and condition of his race, seems never to have dawned on 
his mind. The spirit of disinterestedness and self-sacrifice 
seems not to have waged a moment’s war with self-will 
and ambition. 

His ruling passions, indeed, were singularly at variance 
with magnanimity. Moral greatness has too much sim¬ 
plicity, is too unostentatious, too self-subsistent, and 
enters into others’ interests with too much heartiness, to 
live an hour for what Napoleon always lived, — to make 
itself the theme and gaze and wonder of a dazzled world. 

Next to moral comes intellectual greatness, or genius in 
the highest sense of that word ; and by this we mean that 
sublime capacity of thought, through which the soul, smit¬ 
ten with the love of the true and the beautiful, essays to 
comprehend the universe, soars into the heavens, pene¬ 
trates the earth, penetrates itself, questions the past, an¬ 
ticipates the future, traces out the general and all compre¬ 
hending laws of nature, binds together by innumerable 
affinities and relations all the objects of its knowledge, 
rises from the finite and transient to the infinite and the 
everlasting, frames to itself, from its own fulness, lovelier 
and sublimer forms than it beholds, discerns the harmo¬ 
nies between the world within and the world without us, 
and finds in every region of the universe types and inter¬ 
preters of its own deep mysteries and glorious inspirations. 
This is the greatness which belongs to philosophers and 
to the master-spirits in poetry and the fine arts. 

Next comes the greatness of action; and by this we 
mean the sublime power of conceiving bold and extensive 


290 


THE SIXTH READER. 


plans; of constructing and bringing to bear on a mighty 
object a complicated machinery of means, energies, and 
arrangements, and of accomplishing great outward effects. 

To this head belongs the greatness of Bonaparte, and 
that he possessed it, we need not prove, and none will be 
hardy enough to deny. A man who raised himself from 
obscurity to a throne; who changed the face of the world; 
wlio made himself felt through powerful and civilized 
nations; who sent the terror of his name across seas and 
oceans ; whose will was pronounced and feared as destiny; 
whose donatives were crowns; whose antechamber was 
thronged by submissive princes; who broke down the 
awful barrier of the Alps, and made them a highway; and 
whose fame was spread beyond the boundaries of civiliza- 
tion to the steppes of the Cossack, and the deserts of the 
Arab, — a man who has left this record of himself in his¬ 
tory has taken out of our hands the question whether he 
shall be called great. All must concede to him a sublime 
power of action, — an energy equal to great effects. 




LXII —THE USES OF THE OCEAK 

SWAIN. 

The following extract is a portion of a sermon of striking eloquence and beauty by 
the late Rev. Leonard Swain, of Providence, Rhode Island, published in the “ Biblio¬ 
theca Sacra.” 

T he traveller who would speak of his experience in 
foreign lands must begin with the sea. God has 
spread this vast pavement of his temple between the hemi¬ 
spheres, so that he who sails to foreign shores must jDay a 
double tribute to the Most High; for through this temple 




THE USES OF THE OCEAN. 


291 


lie has to carry his anticipations as he goes, and his 
memories when he returns. The sea speaks for God; and 
liowever eager the tourist may be to reach the strand that 
lies before him, and enter upon the career of business or 
pleasure that awaits him, he must check hi^ impatience 
during this long interval of approach, and listen to the 
voice with which Jehovah speaks to him as, horizon after 
horizon, he moves to his purpose along the aisles of God’s 
mighty tabernacle of the deep. 

It is a common thing, in speaking of the sea, to call it 
“ a waste of waters.” But this is a mistake. Instead of 
being an encumbrance or a superfluity, the sea is as essen¬ 
tial to the life of the world, as the blood is to the life of 
the human body. Instead of being a waste and desert, it 
keeps the earth itself from becoming a waste and a desert. 
It is the world’s fountain of life and health and beauty; 
and if it were taken away, the grass would perish from 
the mountains, the forests would crumble on the hills, the 
harvests would become powder on the plains, the conti¬ 
nent would be one vast Sahara of frosts and fire, and 
the solid globe itself, scarred and blasted on every side, 
would swing in the heavens, silent and dead as on the 
first morning of creation. 

Water is as indispensable to all life, vegetable or ani¬ 
mal, as the air itself From the cedar on the mountains 
to the lichen that clings to the wall; from the elephant 
that pastures on the forests, to the animalcule that floats 
in the sunbeam; from the leviathan that heaves the sea 
into billows, to. the microscopic creatures that swarm, a 
million in a single foam-drop, — all alike depend for their 
existence on this single element and must perish if it be 
withdrawn. 

This element of water is supplied entirely by the sea. 


292 


THE SIXTH READER. 


The sea is the great inexhaustible fountain which is con¬ 
tinually pouring ui^ into the sky precisely as many streams, 
and as large, as all the rivers of the world are pouring 
into it. 

The sea is the real birthplace of the clouds and the 
rivers, and out of it come all the rains and dews of heaven. 
Instead of being a waste and an encumbrance, therefore, it 
is a vast fountain of fruitfulness, and the nurse and mother 
of all the living. Out of its mighty breast come the re¬ 
sources that feed and support the population of the world. 
Omnipresent and everywhere alike is this need and bless¬ 
ing of the sea. It is felt as truly in the centre of the con¬ 
tinent,— where, it may be, the rude inhabitant never 
heard of the ocean, — as it is on the circumference of the 
wave-beaten shore. 

We are surrounded, every moment, by the presence and 
bounty of the sea. It looks out upon us from every violet 
in our garden-bed; from every spire of grass that drops 
upon our passing feet the beaded dew of the morning; 
from the bending grain that fills the arm of the reaper; 
from bursting presses, and from barns filled with plenty; 
from the broad foreheads of our cattle and the rosy faces 
of our children; from the cool dropping well at our door; 
from the brook that murmurs from its side; and from 
the elm or spreading maple that weaves its protecting 
branches beneath the sun, and swings its breezy shadow 
over our habitation. 

It is the sea that feeds us. It is the sea that clothes 
us. It cools us with the summer cloud, and warms us with 
the blazing fires of winter. We make wealth for ourselves 
and for our children out of its rolling waters, though we 
may live a thousand leagues away from its shore, and never 
have looked on its crested beauty, or listened to its eternal 


THE USES OF THE OCEAN. 


293 


anthem. Thus the sea, though it bears no harvest on its 
bosom, yet sustains all the harvests of the world. Thoue-h 
a desert itself, it makes all the other wildernesses of the 
earth to bud and blossom as the rose. Though its own 
waters are as salt and wormwood, it makes the clouds of 
heaven to drop with sweetness, opens springs in the val¬ 
leys, and rivers among the hills, and fountains in all dry 
places, and gives drink to all the inhabitants of the earth. 

The sea is a perpetual source of health to the world. 
Without it there could be no drainage for the lands. It 
is the scavenger of the world. Its agency is omnipresent. 
Its vigilance is omniscient. Where no sanitary committee 
could ever come, where no police could ever penetrate, its 
myriad eyes are searching, and its million hands are busy 
exploring all the lurking-places of decay, bearing swiftly 
off the dangerous sediments of life, and laying them a 
thousand miles away in the slimy bottom of the deep. 

The sea is also set to purify the atmosphere. The 
winds, whose wings are heavy and whose breath is sick 
with the malaria of the lands over which they have blown, 
are sent out to range over these mighty pastures of the 
deep, to plunge and play with its rolling billows, and dip 
their pinions over and over in its healing waters. There 
they rest when they are weary, cradled into sleep on that 
vast swinging couch of the ocean. There they rouse them¬ 
selves when they are refreshed, and lifting its waves upon 
their shoulders, they dash it into sj)ray, and hurl it back¬ 
wards and forwards through a thousand leagues of sky. 
Thus their whole substance is drenched, and bathed, and 
washed, and winnowed, and sifted through and through, by 
this glorious baptism. Thus they fill their mighty lungs 
once more with the sweet breath of ocean, and, striking 
their wings for the shore, they go breathing health and 


294 


THE SIXTH READER. 


vigor along all the fainting hosts that wait for them in 
mountain and forest and valley and plain, till the whole 
drooping continent lifts iqi its rejoicing face, and mingles 
its laughter with the sea that has waked it from its 
fevered sleep, and poured its tides of returning life through 
all its shrivelled arteries. 

The ocean is not the idle creature that it seems, with 
its vast and lazy length stretched between the continents, 
with its huge bulk sleeping along the shore, or tumbling 
in aimless fury from pole to pole. It is a mighty giant, 
who, leaving his oozy bed, comes up upon the land to 
spend his strength in the service of man. He there allows 
his captors to chain him in prisons of stone and iron, to 
bind his shoulders to the wheel, and set him to grind the 
food of the nations, and weave the garments of the world. 
The mighty shaft, which that wheel turns, runs out into aU 
the lands; and geared and belted to that centre of power, 
ten thousand times ten thousand clanking engines roll 
their cylinders, and ply their hammers, and drive their 
million shuttles. 

Thus the sea keeps all our mills and factories in mo¬ 
tion. Thus the sea spins our thread and weaves our cloth. 
It is the sea that cuts our iron bars like wax, rolls them 
out into proper thinness, or piles them up in the solid 
shaft strong enough to be the pivot of a revolving planet. 
It is the sea that tunnels the mountains, and bores the 
mine, and lifts the coal from its sunless depths, and the 
ore from its rocky bed. It is the sea that lays the iron 
track, that builds the iron horse, that fills his nostrils 
with fiery breath, and sends his tireless hoofs thundering 
across the longitudes. It is the power of the sea that is 
doing for man all those mightiest works that would be else 
impossible. It is by this power that he is to level the 


GREECE, IN 1809 . 


295 


mountains, to tame the wildernesses, to subdue the con¬ 
tinents, to throw his pathways around the globe, and 
make his nearest approaches to omnipresence and om¬ 
nipotence. 




LXIII. — GREECE, IN 1809. 

; BYRON. 

George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron, was born in London, January 22, 1788; and 
died at Missolonglii, in Greece, April 19, 1824. In March, 1812, he published the 
first two cantos of his splendid poem, “ Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage,” which produced 
an impression upon the public almost without precedent in English literature, and 
gained him the very highest place among the poets of the day. 

Lord Byron’s poetry has, in an intellectual point of view, some great and enduring 
excellences. In description and in the expression of passion he is unrivalled. His 
poetry abounds with passages of melting tenderness and exquisite sweetness, which 
take captive and bear away the susceptible heart. His wit, too, is playful and bi'il- 
liant, and his sarcasm venomous and blistering. His leading characteristic is energy: 
he'is never languid or tame; and in his highest moods, his words flash and burn like 
lightning from the cloud, and hurry the reader along with the b^pathless speed of 
the tempest. 

Much of Lord Byron’s poetry is objectionable in a moral i)oint of view. Some of 
it ministers undisguisedly to the evil passions, and confounds the distinctions be¬ 
tween right and wrong; and still more of it is false and morbid in its tone, and 
teaches, directly or indirectly, the mischievous and irreligious doctrine, that the 
unhappiness of men is just in proportion to their intellectual superiority. 

The folloAving extract is from “Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage.” Thermopylaj is a 
narrow pass leading from Thessaly into Southern Greece, where Leonidas and a 
small band of Sjiartan heroes, resisting an immense Persian host, were all slain. The 
town of Sparta, or Lacediemon, was upon the river Eurotas. Thrasybulus was an 
Athenian general who overthrew the power of the Thirty Tyrants in Athens, b. c. 403. 
He first seized the fortress of Phyle, which was about fifteen miles from Athens. 
The Helots were slaves to the Spartans. Colonna, or Colonni, anciently Sunium, is a 
promontory forming the southern extremity of Attica, Avhere there was a temple to 
Minerva, who was also called Tritonia. Hymettus and Pentelicus were mountains 
near Athens, the former famous for honey, and the latter for marble. The modern 
name of Pentelicus is Mendeli. Athena was a name by which the Greeks called 
Minerva, the literary goddess of Athens. 

F AIE Greece !. sad relic of departed worth ! 

Immortal, though no more; though fallen, great! 

Who now shall lead thy scattered children forth, 

And long-accustomed bondage uncreate | 



296 


THE SIXTH READER. 


JN^ot such thy sons who whilom'^ did await — 

The hopeless warriors of a willing doom — 
rj In bleak Thermopyloe’s sepulchral strait: 

Oil I who that gallant spirit shall resume, 

Leap from Eurotas’ banks and call thee from the tomb 1 



Spirit of Freedom ! when on Phyle’s brow 
Thou sat’st with Thrasybulus and his train, 

Couldst thou forebode the dismal hour that now 
Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain 1 
Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain, 

But every carle t can lord it o’er thy land; 

Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain. 

Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand. 

From birth till death enslaved; in word, in deed, unmanned 

In all, save form alone, how changed ! and who / 

That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye. 

Who but would deem their bosoms burned anew 
AWth thy unquenched beam, lost Liberty! 

And many dream withal the hour is nigh 
That gives them back their fathers’ heritage; 

For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh. 

Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage. 

Or tear their name defiled from Slavery’s mournful page. 

Hereditary bondmen ! know ye not 

Who would be free, themselves must strike the blow? 

By their right arms the conquest must be wrought: 

Will Gaul, or Muscovite, redress ye? — No ! 
c True, they may lay your proud despoilers low: / 

But not for you will Freedom’s altars flame. ^ { o 

Shades of the Helots ! triumph o’er your foe ! 

Greece ! change thy lords : thy state is still the same : 

Thy glorious day is o’er, but not thy years of shame. 


* Formerly. 


t A rude man. 



GREECE, IN 1809. 


When riseth Lacedtemon’s hardihood, 

When Thelies Epaminondas rears again, 

When Athens’ children are with hearts endued. 
When Grecian moEiers shall give birth to men, 
Then thou mayst be restored ; but not till then. 

A thousand years scarce serve to form a state ; 

An hour may lay it in the dust; and when 
Can man its shattered splendor renovate 1 
Recall its virtues back, and vanquish Time and Fate? 

And yet, h«w lovely, in thine age of woe. 

Land of lost gods, and godlike men, art thou! 
Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow. 

Proclaim thee ISTature’s varied favorite now. 

Thy fanes, thy temples, to thy surface bow, 
Commingling slowly with heroic earth ; 

Broke by the share of every rustic plough : 

So perish monuments of mortal birth ; 

So perish all in turn save well-recorded worth { 

Save where some solitary column mourns 
Above its prostrate brethren of the cave; 

Save where Tritonia’s airy shrine adorns 
Colonna’s cliff, and gleams along the wave; 

Save o’er some warrior’s half-forgotten grave. 
Where the gray stones and unmolested grass 
Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave. 

While strangers only, not regardless pass. 

Lingering, like me, perchance, to gaze and sigh, “Alas 

Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild; 

Sweet are thy gro’Vies, and verdant are thy fields. 
Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled, 

And still his honeyed ^wealth Hymettus yields. 
There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds. 




298 


THE SIXTH READER. 


The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain air. 

Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds, 

Still in his beams Mendeli’s marbles glare : 

Art, Glory, Freedom, fail, but Nature still is fair. 

Where’er we tread’t is haunted, holy ground; 

No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould; 

But one vast realm of wonder spreads around, 

And all the Muse’s tales seem truly told, 

Till the sense aches with gazing, to behold 
The scenes our earliest dreams have dwells upon. 

Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold,'*' 
Defies the power which crushed thy temples gone : 
Age shakes Athena’s tower, but spares gray Marathon, 

Long, to the remnants of thy splendor past. 

Shall pilgrims pensive, but unwearied, tlirong; 
Long shall the voyager, with th’ Ionian blast, 

Hail the bright clime of battle and of song. 

Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue 
Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore ; 

Boast of the aged ! lesson of the young ! 

Which sages venerate and bards adore. 

As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore. 


LXIV. — THANATOPSIS.f 


BRYANT. 



0 him who, in the love of Nature, holds 


-L Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
A various language. For his gayer hours 
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 


t From two Greek words, signifying a view of death. 


* A wood. 




THANAWPSIS. 


And eloquence of beauty; and she glides 

Into his dark«r musings, with a mild 

And gentle sympathy, that steals away 

Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts 

Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 

Over thy spirit, and sad images ’ 

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall. 

And breathless darkness, and the narrow house. 
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart. 

Go forth under the open sky, and list 
lo Nature’s teachings, while from all around — 
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — 
Comes a still voice, — Yet a few days, and thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground. 
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears. 

Nor in-the embrace of ocean, shall exist 

Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim 

Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again ^ 

And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 
Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
To mix forever with the elements; 

To be a brother to the insensible rock. 

And to the sluggish clod, whicli the rude swain 
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. 

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
Shalt thou retire alone, —^ nor couldst thou wish 
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
With patriarchs of the infant world ; with kings. 
The powerful of the^ earth, — the wise, the good, 
Eair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, — 

All in one mighty se pulchrej The hills 
Eock-ribbed and ancient as the sun; the vales 
Stretching in pensive quietness between; 


THE SIXTH READER. 


The venerable woods; rivers that move 
In majesty, and the complaining brooks, 

That make the meadows green; and, poured round all. 
Old ocean’s gray and melancholy waste, — 

Are but the solemn decorations all 

Of the great tomb of man ! The golden sun. 

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven. 

Are shining on the sad abodes of death. 

Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 
The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings 
Of morning, and traverse Barca’s desert sands ; 

Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound 
Save his own dashings — yet — the dead are there ! 
And millions in those solitudes, since first 
The flight of years began, have laid them down 
In their last sleep, — the dead reign there alone. 

So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw 
In silence from the living, and no friend 
Take note of thy dej^arture ^ All that breathe 
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 
Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase 
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave 
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come 
And make their bed with thee. As the long train 
Of ages glides away, the sons of men — 

The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goes 
In the full strength of years, matron, and maid. 

And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man — 

Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side. 

By those who in their turn shall follow them. 

So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan, which moves 


JOAN OF ARC. 


301 


To that mysterious realm where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death, 

Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night 
Scourged to his dungeon ; but, sustained and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 


-•O#- 


LXV. —JOAN OF AEG. 


THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 


Thomas He Quincey was born in Manchester, England, August 15, 1785; lived foi 
some years in Grassmere, in the county of Westmoreland, and latterly in Scotland. 
He died December 2,1859. He first attracted attention as a writer by his “ Confessionj 
of an English Opium-Eater,” published in 1822, which was much admired for the splen' 
dor of its descriptions, the vividness of its pictures, and the impassioned eloquence 
of its style. He afterwards wrote a great number of papers in periodical journals, 
especially in “Blackwood’s Magazine.” These have been collected and published in 
America; filling thus far (and the list is not exhausted) not less than eighteen 
small-sized volumes. 

De Quincey was a man of great learning and genius. His style is distinguished for 
elaborate splendor and imperial magnificence. He has a rare power of painting sol¬ 
emn and gorgeous pictures; not with a few touches, but in lines slowly drawn and 
with colors carefully laid on. He has equal skill in expressing the language of strong 
and deep passion, — the sorrow that softens the heart and the remorse which lacer¬ 
ates it. He has also a peculiar vein of humor, which produces its effects by ampli¬ 
fication and slowly adding one ludicrous conception to another. And combined with 
these are a rare faculty of acute metaphysical analysis, which divides and defines 
with the sharpest precision, and a biting critical discernment, which eats into the 
heart of ignorance and presumption. The writings of De Quincey are well worth 
studying on account of their rhetorical power and their wealth of expression. 


“T lXHAT is to be thought of lur'l What is to be 
VV thought of the poor shepherd-girl from the hills 
and forests of Lorraine, that — like the Hebrew shepherd- 
boy from the hills and forests of Judsea — rose suddenly 
out of the quiet, out of the safety, out of the religious 
inspiration, rooted in deep pastoral solitudes, to a station 
in the van of armies, and to the more perilous station at 
the right hand of kings ? 




302 


THE SIXTH READEB. 



The Hebrew boy inaugurated liis patriotic mission by 
an act, by a victorious act, such as no man could deny. 
But so did the girl of Lorraine, if we read her story as it 
was read by those who saw her nearest. Adverse armies 














♦f 



V 

JOAN OF ARC. 


y 

303 


bore witness to the boy as no pretender; but so they 
did to the gentle girl. Judged by the voices of all who 
saw them from a station of good-will, both were found 
true and loyal to any promises involved in their first 
acts. Enemies it was that made the difference between 
their subsequent fortunes. 

The boy rose — to a splendor and a noonday prosperity, 
both personal and public, that rang through the records 
of his people, and became a byword amongst his pos¬ 
terity for a thousand years, until the sceptre was depart¬ 
ing from Judah. The poor forsaken girl, on the con¬ 
trary, drank not herself from that cup of rest which she 
had secured for France. She never sang togetlier with 
the songs that rose in her native Domremy * as echoes to 
the departing steps of invaders. She mingled not in the 
festal dances of Vaucouleurs,*!' which celebrated in rapture 
the redemption of France. 

hlo ! for her voice was then silent. No ! for her feet 
were dust. Pure, innocent, noble-hearted girl! whom, 
from earliest youth, ever I believed in,as full of truth 
and self-sacrifice, this was amongst the strongest pledges 
for thy side, that never once — no, not for a moment 
of weakness — didst thou revel in the vision of coro¬ 
nets and honor from man. Coronets for thee! 0 no ! 

Honors, if they come when all is over, are for those that 
share thy blood. 

Daughter of Domremy, when the gratitude of thy king 
shall awaken, thou wilt be sleeping the sleep of the dead. 
Call her, king of France, but she will not hear thee. Cite 
her by thy apparitors to come and receive a robe of honor, 
but she will not obey the summons. When the thunders 
of universal France, as even yet may happen, shall pro- 

* Domremy, dom’re-my. t Vaucouleurs, vo-co-lers'. 


304 


THE SIXTH READER. 


claim the grandeur of the poor shepherd-girl, that gave 
up all for her country, — thy ear, young shepherd-girl, 
will liave been deaf for five centuries. 

To suffer and to do, that was thy portion in this life; 
to do, — never for thyself, always for others; to suffer, — 
never in the persons of generous champions, always in 
thy own: that was thy destiny; and not for a moment 
was it hidden from thyself Life,” thou saidst, is 
short, and the sleep which is in the grave is long. Let 
me use that life, so transitory, for the glory of those heav¬ 
enly dreams destined to comfort the sleep which is so 
long.” * 

This pure creature, — pure from every suspicion of even 
a visionary self-interest, even as she was pure in senses 
more obvious, — never once did this holy child, as re¬ 
garded herself, relax from her belief in the darkness 
that was travelling to meet her. She might not pre¬ 
figure the very manner of her death; she saw not in 
vision, perhaps, the aerial altitude of the fiery scaffold, 
the spectators without end on every road pouring into 
Eouen* as to a coronation, the surging smoke, the volley¬ 
ing flames, the hostile faces all around, the pitying eye 
that lurked but here and there until nature and imper¬ 
ishable truth broke loose from artificial restraints,—these 
might not be apparent through the mists of the hurrying 
future. But the voice that called her to death, that she 
heard forever. 

Great was the throne of France even in those days, 
and great was he that sat upon it; but well Joanna 
knew that not the throne, nor he that sat upon it, was 
for her ; but, on the contrary, that she was for them; not 
she by them, but they by her, should rise from the dust. 

* Rouen, ro'en or r&-an(g)'. 


ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD. 


305 


Gorgeous were tlie lilies of France, and for centuries had 
the privilege to spread their beauty over land and sea, 
until, in another century, the wrath of God and man 
combined to wither them; but well Joanna knew — early 
at Domremy she had read that bitter truth — that the lilies 
of France would decorate no garland for her. Flower nor 
bud, bell nor blossom, would ever bloom for her. 




LXVL —ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD. 

JAMES R. LOWELL. 

H OW peacefully they rest, 
Cross-folded there 
Upon his little breast, 

Those small white hands that ne’er were still before, 
But ever sported with his mother’s hair. 

Or the plain cross that on her breast she wore! 

Her heart no more will beat 
To feel the touch of that soft palm. 

That ever seemed a new surprise. 

Sending glad thoughts up to her eyes 
To bless him with their holy calm, — 

Sweet thoughts ! they made her eyes as sweet. 

How quiet are the hands 
That wove those pleasant bands I 
But that they do not rise and sink 
With his calm breathing, I should think 
That he were dropped asleep : 

Alas ! too deep, too deep 




TEE SIXTH READER. 


Is this liis slumber; 

Time scarce can number 
The years ere he will wake again — 

0, may we see his eyelids open then, — 

0, stern word — nevermore 

He did but float a little way 
Adown the stream of time, 

With dreamy eyes watching the ripples’ play. 
Or listening to their fairy chime; 

His slender sail 
Ne’er felt the gale ; ' 

He did but float a little way. 

And putting to the shore, 

While yet’t was early day, 

Went calmly on his way. 

To dwell with us no more i 

Full short his journey was ; no dust 
Of earth unto his sandals clave ; 

The weary weight that old men must. 

He bore not to the grave. 

He seemed a cherub who had lost his way. 
And wandered hither; so his stay 

AVith us was short, and’t was most meet 
That he should be no delver in earth’s clod. 
Nor need to pause and cleanse his feet 
To stand before his God — 

0, blest word — evermore ! 




THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. 


307 


LXVII.—THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. 

'' 1 



WHITTIER. 


Buena Vista is a hamlet in Mexico where the Mexican army, under General Santa 
Anna, was defeated by the Americans, under General Taylor, February 22 and 23, 
1847. La Angostura is about a mile and a half distant. La Puebla (pwa'blii, or 
poo-a'bla) is the second city of Mexico. 

S PEAK and tell us, ourXimena,''^ looking northward Lti' away, 
O’er the camp of the invaders, o’er the Mexican array. 
Who is losing who is winning 1 are they far or come they near 1 
Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm we hear. 

“ Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle rolls ; 
Blood is flowing, men are dying; God have mercy on their 


souls! ” 


Who is losing 1 who is winning ] — “ Over hill and over plain, 

I see but smoke of cannon, clouding through the mountain rain.” 

Holy Mother! keep our brothers ! Look, Ximena, look once 
more! 

“ Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as before, 

Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman, foot and 
horse, 

Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down its moun¬ 
tain course.” 

Look forth once more, Ximena ! “ Ah ! the smoke has rolled 

away; 

And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the ranks of gray. 

Hark ! that sudden blast of bugles ! there the troop of Minon f 
wheels : 

There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannon at their 
heels. 


* Pronounced Hi-nia'na. 

t Minon (pronounced min-yon) was a Mexican general. 


308 


THE SIXTH READER. 


“ Jesu, pity ! how it thickens ! now retreat and now advance ! 

Right against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla’s charging lance! 

Down they go, the brave young riders; horse and foot together 
fall; 

Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through them ploughs the 
Northern hall.” 

M 

Nearer came the storm and nearer, rolling fast and frightful on. 

Speak, Nimena, speak and tell us, who has lost and who has 
won'? 

“ Alas ! alas ! I know not; friend and foe together fall; 

O’er the dying rush the living; pray, my sisters, for them all! 

“ Lo ! the wind the smoke is lifting. Blessed Mother, save my 
brain! 

I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from heaps of slain. 

Now they stagger, blind and bleeding ; now they fall, and strive 
to rise; 

Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die before our 
eyes! 

“ 0 my heart’s love! 0 my dear one! lay thy poor head on 
my knee; 

Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee'? Canst thou hear me 1 
Canst thou see 1 

0 my husband, brave and gentle ! 0 my Bernard, look once 

more 

On the blessed cross before thee ! mercy ! mercy ! all is o’er.” 

Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena; lay thy dear one down to rest; 

Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross upon his breast; 

Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses said; 

To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy aid. 

Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier lay, 

Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow his life 
'away; 


f 


7 

/ 

] 

THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. 309 

t 

But, as tenderly before him, the lorn Ximena knelt. 

She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol-belt. 

With a stifled cry of horror straight she turned away her head ; 

With a sad and bitter feeling looked she back upon her dead : 

But she heard the youth’s low moaning, and his struggling 
breath of pain. 

And she raised the cooling water to his parched lips again. 

Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed her hand, and faintly 
smiled. 

Was that pitying face his mother’s 1 did she watch beside her 
child % 

All his stranger words with meaning her woman’s heart supplied; 

With her kiss upon his forehead, “ Mother! ” murmured he, 
and died. 

“A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee forth. 

From some gentle, sad-eyed mother, weeping lonely in the 
North! ” 

Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid him with her dead. 

And turned to soothe the living, and bind the wounds which bled. 

Look forth once more, Ximena ! ‘‘ Like a cloud before the wind 

Rolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood and death 
behind; 

Ah! they plead in vain for mercy; in the dust the wounded 
strive; 

Hide your faces, holy angels ! 0 thou Christ of God, forgive ! ” 

Sink, 0 Night, among thy mountains ! let the cool, gray shad¬ 
ows fall; 

Dying brothers, fighting demons, drop thy curtain over all! 

Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart the battle 
rolled, 

In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon’s lips grew cold. 



310 


THE SIXTH BEADEE. 


But the noble Mexic women still their holy task, pursued, 
Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and faint and 
lacking food; 

Over weak and suffering brothers, with a tender care they hung, 
And the dying foeman blessed them in a strange and Northern 
tongue. 

Not wholly lost, 0 Father ! is this evil world of ours ; 

Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh the Eden 
flowers; 

From its smoking hell of battle. Love and Pity send their prayer, 
And still thy wliite-winged angels hover dimly in our air! 

I 

- •<>• - 

LXVIIL — VOICES OF THE DEAD] V' . 

GUMMING. 

John Gumming, D. T)., is the pastor of a Scotch Presbyterian church in the city 
of London. He is a popular and eloquent preacher, and the author of many works 
which are favorably known in this country as well as in Europe. Among them are 
“Apocalyptic Sketches,” “ Lectures on the Parables,” and “Voices of the Night.” 

E die, but leave an influence behind us that sur¬ 
vives. The echoes of our words are evermore 
repeated, and reflected along the ages. It is what man 
was that lives and acts after him. What he said sounds 
along the years like voices amid the mountain gorges ; 
and what he did is repeated after him in ever-multiply¬ 
ing and never-ceasing reverberations. Every man has 
left behind him influences for good or for evil that will 
never exhaust themselves. The sphere in which he acts 
may be small, or it may be great. It may be his fireside, 
or it may be a kingdom; a village, or a great nation; it 
may be a parish, or broad Europe : but act he does, cease¬ 
lessly and forever. His friends, his family, his successors 






‘ VOICES OF THE DEAD. I ^ 311 

ill office, liis relatives, are all receptive of an influence, 
a moral influence, which he has transmitted and be¬ 
queathed to mankind; either a blessing which will repeat 
itself in showers of benedictions, or a curse which will 
nmltiihy itself in ever-accumnlating evil. 

Every man is a missionary, now and forever, for good 
or for evil, whether he intends and designs it or not. 
He may be a blot, radiating his dark influence outward 
to the very circumference of society, or he may be a 
blessing, spreading benedictions over the length and 
breadth of the world ; but a blank he cannot be. The 
seed sown in life springs up in harvests of blessings or 
harvests of sorrow. Whether our influence is great or 
small, whether it is good or evil, it lasts, it lives some¬ 
where, within some limit, and is operative wherever it is. 
The grave buries the dead dust, but the character walks 
the world, and distributes itself, as a benediction or a 
curse, among the families of mankind. 

The sun sets beyond the western hills; but the trail of 
light he leaves behind him guides the pilgrim to his dis¬ 
tant home. The tree falls in the forest; but in the lapse 
of ages it is turned into coal, and our fires burn now tlie 
brighter because it grew and fell. The coral insect dies; 
but the reef it raised breaks the surge on the shores of 
great continents, or has formed an isle in the bosom of the 
ocean, to wave with harvests for the good of man. We 
live and we die; but the good or evil that we do lives 
after us, and is not “ buried with our bones.” 

Tlie babe that perished on the bosom of its mother, 
like a flower that bowed its head and drooped amid the 
death-frosts of time, — that babe, not only in its image, 
but in its influence, still lives and speaks in the chambers 
of the mother’s heart. 


312 


THE SIXTH READER. 


The friend with whom we took sweet counsel is re¬ 
moved visibly from the outward eye; but the lessons 
that he taught, the grand sentiments that he uttered, the 
holy deeds of generosity by which he was characterized, 
the moral lineaments and likeness of the man, still sur¬ 
vive, and appear in the silence of eventide, and on the 
tablets of memory, and in the light of morn, and noon, 
and dewy eve ; and, being dead, he yet speaks eloquently, 
and in the midst of us. 

Mahomet still lives in his practical and disastrous in¬ 
fluence in the East. N’apoleon still is France, and France 
is almost Napoleon. Martin Luther’s dead dust sleeps at 
Wittenberg, but Martin Luther’s accents still ring through 
the churches of Christendom. Shakespeare, Byron, and 
Milton all live in their influence, for good or evil. The 
apostle from his chair, the minister from his pulpit, the 
martyr from his flame-shroud, the statesman from his 
cabinet, the soldier in the field, the sailor on the deck, 
who all have passed away to their graves, still live in the 
practical deeds that they did, in the lives they lived, and 
in the powerful lessons that they left behind them. 

‘■'None of us liveth to himself”; others are affected by 
that life : '' or dieth to himself ” ; others are interested in 
that death. Our queen’s crown may moulder, but she 
who wore it will act upon the ages which are yet to come. 
The noble’s coronet may be reft in pieces, but the wearer 
of it is now doing what will be reflected by thousands 
who will be made and moulded by him. Dignity and 
rank and riches are all corruptible and worthless ; but 
moral character has an immortality that no sword-point 
can destroy, that ever walks the world and leaves last¬ 
ing influences behind. 

What we do is transacted on a stage of which all in the 


VOICES OF THE DEAD. 


313 


universe are spectators. What we say is transmitted in 
echoes that will never cease. What we are is influencino- 
and acting on the rest of mankind. Neutral we cannot be. 
Living we act, and dead we speak; and the whole uni¬ 
verse is the mighty company forever looking, forever lis¬ 
tening, and all nature the tablets forever recording the 
words, the deeds, the thoughts, the passions, of mankind ! 

Monuments and columns and statues, erected to he¬ 
roes, poets, orators, statesmen, are all influences that 
extend into the future ages. “The blind old man of 
Scio’s rocky isle ” * still speaks. The Mantuan bard f 
still sings in every school. Shakespeare, the bard of 
Avon, is still translated into every tongue. The philos¬ 
ophy of the Stagyrite J is still felt in every academy. 
Whether these influences are beneficent or the reverse, 
tliey are influences fraught with power. How blest must 
he the recollection of those who, like the setting sun, 
have left a trail of light behind them by which others 
may see the way to that rest which remaineth with the 
people of God! 

It is only the pure fountain that brings forth pure 
water. The good tree only will produce the good fruit. 
If the centre from which all proceeds is pure and holy, 
the radii of influence from it will be pure and holy also. 
Go forth, then, into the spheres that you occupy, the em¬ 
ployments, the trades, the professions of social life ; go 
forth into the high places or into the lowly places of the 
land; mix with the roaring cataracts of social convul¬ 
sions, or mingle amid the eddies and streamlets of quiet 
and domestic life ; whatever sphere you fill, carrying into 
it a lioly heart, you will radiate around you life and power, 
and leave behind you holy and beneficent influences. 

* Homer. "t Virgil. + Aristotle. 


314 


THE SIXTH READER. 


LXIX. —THE BOSTON TEA CATASTBOPHE. 


THOMAS CARLYLE. 


Thomas Carlyle was born in Dumfriesshire, in Scotland, in 1796, and has resided 
for many years in or near London. While quite young, he wrote several iiapers for 
Brewster’s “ Edinburgh Encyclopsedia ” ; but he first began to attract attention by 
liis contributions to the “Edinburgh Review,” and especially by an admirable paper 
on Burns. He rose by degrees into great popularity and commanding influence as a 
writer, but was known and valued at an earlier period in America than at liome. 
His works are quite numerous : among them are a “ Life of Schiller,” “Sartor Resar- 
tus,” a “History of the French Revolution,” “Past and Present,” “Hero-Worship,” 
“ Latter-Day Pamphlets,” a “Life of Sterling,” “ The Life and Letters of Cromwell,” 
“ Chartism,” and several volumes of contributions to periodical literature. 

Carlyle is an original thinker and a powerful writer. His early and familiar acquaint¬ 
ance with the literature of Germany has given a i)eculiar character to his style, by 
W'hich some are repelled and some are attracted; the latter being now the larger 
l»art. Portions of his later writings read like literal translations from the German. 
He is fond of odd terms of expression, and has a family of pet words, which he in¬ 
troduces on all occasions. His style is thus very marked, and never to be mistaken 
for that of any other author. His writings are not easy reading at first; but those 
who like them at all iik.c them much. 

The following extract is from the “History of Frederick the Great,” Vol. VI. 
pp. 400, 407. 


UEIOUS to remark, wliile Frederick is writing this 



N-y letter, “ Thursday, December 16,1773,” what a com¬ 
motion is going on, far over seas, at Boston, New Eng¬ 
land, in tlie ‘‘ Old Soutli Meeting-house ” there, in regard 
to three Englisli tea-ships that are lying embargoed in 
Griffin’s Wharf, for above a fortnight past. The case is 
well known, and still memorable to mankind. 

British Parliament, after nine years of the saddest 
haggling and baffling to and fro, under constitutional 
stress of weatlier, and such east winds and west winds 
of Parliamentary eloquence as seldom were, has made up 
its mind tliat America shall pay duty on these teas be¬ 
fore infusing them ; and America, Boston more especially, 
is tacitly determined that it will not; and that, to avoid 
mistakes, these teas shall never be landed at all. Such 
is Boston’s private intention, more or less fixed, — to say 


THE BOSTON TEA CATASTROPHE. 


315 


nothing of the Philadelphias, Charlestons, New Yorks, 
who are watching Boston, and will follow suite of it. 

Sunday, November 26th, — that is, nineteen days ago, 
— the first of these tea-ships, the “Dartmouth,” Captain 
Hall, moored itself in Griffin’s Wharf. Owner and con¬ 
signee is a broad-brimmed Boston gentleman called 
Botch, more attentive to profits of trade than to the 
groans of Boston; but already on that Sunday, much more 
on the Monday following, there had a meeting of citi¬ 
zens run together (on Monday Faneuil Hall won’t hold 
them, and they adjourn to the Old South Meeting-house), 
who make it apparent to Botch that it will much be¬ 
hove him, for the sake both of tea and skin, not to “ en¬ 
ter ” (or officially announce) this ship “ Dartmouth ” at 
the custom-house in any wise ; but to pledge his broad- 
brimmed word, equivalent to his oath, that she shall lie 
dormant there in Griffin’s Wharf, till we see. 

Which, accordingly, she has been doing ever since; she 
and two others that arrived some days later, dormant all 
three *of them, side by side, three crews totally idle; a 
“Committee of Ten” supervising Botch’s procedures; and 
the Boston world much expectant. Thursday, December 
16th : this is the twentieth day since Botch’s “ Dart¬ 
mouth” arrived here; if not “entered” at custom-house 
in the course of this day, custom-house cannot give her a 
“ clearance ” either (a leave to depart); she becomes a 
smuggler, an outlaw, and her fate is mysterious to Botch 
and to us. 

This Thursday, accordingly, by ten in the morning, in 
the Old South Meeting-house, Boston is assembled, and 
country people to the number of 2,000; and Botch was 
never in such a company of human friends before. They 
are not uncivil to him (cautious people, heedful of the 


316 


THE SIXTH READER. 


verge of the law); but they are peremptory, to the ex¬ 
tent of— Kotch may shudder to think what. 

“ I went to the custom-liouse yesterday,” said Ilotch, 
“yoiir Committee of Ten can bear me witness, and de¬ 
manded clearance and leave to depart; but they would 
not: were forbidden, they said.” “ Go, then, sir; get you 
to the governor liimself; a clearance, and out of harbor 
this day ; had n’t you better ? ” Kotch is well aware that 
he had; hastens off to the governor (who has vanished 
to his country-house on purpose). Old South Meeting¬ 
house adjourning till 3 P. M., for Kotch’s return with 
clearance. 

At three no Kotch, nor at four, nor at five; miscella¬ 
neous plangent,* intermittent speech instead, mostly plan¬ 
gent, in tone sorrowful rather than indignant; at a 
quarter to six, here at length is Kotch; sun is long since 
set, — has Kotch a clearance or not ? 

Kotch reports at large, willing to be questioned and 
cross-questioned : ‘‘ Governor absolutely would not! My 
Christian friends, what could I or can I do ? ” There are 
by this time 7,000 people in Old South Meeting-house; 
very few tallow lights in comparison, — almost no lights 
for the mind either, — and it is difficult to answer. 

Kotch’s report done, the chairman (one Adams, Amer¬ 
ican Cato,” subsequently so called) “ dissolves the sorrow¬ 
ful 7,000,” with these words: “ This meeting declares 
that it can do nothing more to save the country.” Will 
merely go home, then, and weep. Hark, however: al¬ 
most on the instant, in front of Old South Meeting-house, 
a terrific war-whoop ; and about fifty Mohawk Indians, — 
with whom Adams seems to be acquainted, and speaks 
without interpreter. Aha! 

* Plangent: literally, dashing, as the waves of the sea; here, sac? and 
monotonous. 


vO 

INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 317 

And, sure enough, before the stroke of seven, these fifty 
painted Mohawks are forward, witliout noise, to Griffin’s 
Wharf; have put sentries all round there; and, in a great 
silence of the neighborhood, are busy, in three gangs, on 
the dormant tea-ships, opening their chests and punctu- 
ally shaking them out into the sea. Listening from the 
distance, you could hear the ripping open of the cliests 
and no other sound.” About 10 p. m., all was finished; 
o42 chests of tea flung out to infuse in the Atlantic; the 
fifty Moliawks gone like a dream; and Boston sleeping- 
more silently even than usual. 


^ —» 0 »' 

LXX.-—INTIMATIONS OF IMMOETALITY. 

WORDSWORTH. 

William Wordsworth was born at Cockermouth, in the county of Cumberland, 
England, April 7, 1770 ; and died April 23, 1850. His life was passed for the most part 
in that beautiful region of England where he was born, and with which so much of his 
I)oetry is inseparably associated. He made his first ai)pearance as an author in 1793, 
by the publication of a thin quarto volume of poems, which did not attract much 
attention. Indeed, for many years his poetry made little impression on the general 
jiublic, and that not of a favorable kind. The “ Edinburgh Review” — the great au¬ 
thority in matters of literary taste — set its face against him ; and Wordsworth’s own 
style and manner were so peculiar, and so unlike those of the poetry which was pop¬ 
ular at the time, that he was obliged to create the taste by which he himself was 
judged. As time went on, his influence and popularity increased, and many years 
before his death he enjoyed a fame and consideration which in calmness and serenity 
resembled the unbiassed judgment of posterity. 

Wordsworth’s character was pure and high. He was reserved in manner, and some 
what exclusive in his tastes and sympathies; but his friends were warmly attached to 
him. His domestic affections were strong and deep. 

His Life has been published, since his decease, by his nephew, the Rev. Christopher 
Wordsworth, and republished in this country. In Coleridge’s “ Biographia Literaria,” 
there is an admii-able review of his poetical genius, in which praise is bestowed gen¬ 
erously and discriminately, and defects are pointed out with a loving and reverent 
hand. 

T here was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 

The earth, and every common sight, 

To me did seem 



318 


THE SIXTH EEADER. 


Apparelled in celestial light, — 

The glory and the freshness of a dream. 

It is not now as it hath been of yore : 

Turn wheresoe’er I may, 

By night or day. 

The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 


Thy rainbow comes and goes. 

And lovely is the rose; 

The moon doth with delight 
Look round her when the heavens are bare; 

Waters on a starry night 
Are beautiful and fair ; 

The sunshine is a glorious birth; 

But yet I know, where’er I go. 

That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. 

How, while the birds thus sing a joyous song. 

And while the young lambs bound 
As to the tabor’s sound. 

To me alone there comes a thought of grief; 

A timely utterance gives that thought relief. 

And I again am strong. 

The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep, — 

Ho more shall grief of mine the season wrong. 

I hear the echoes through the mountains throng; 

The winds come to me from the fields of sleep. 

And all the earth is gay ; 

Land and sea 

Give themselves up to jollity ; 

And with the heart of May 
Doth every beast keep holiday; — 

Thou child of joy. 

Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy shepherd- 
boy ! 



INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY, 319 

0 joy ! that in our embers 
Is something that doth live, 

That nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive ! 

The thoughts of our past years in me doth breed 
Perpetual benediction : not, indeed. 

For that which is most worthy to be blest, — 

Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest. 

With new-hedged hope still buttering in his breast, — 
Not for these I raise 
The song of thanks and praise ; 

But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things. 

Fallings from us, vanishings. 

Blank misgivings of a creature 
* Moving about in worlds not realized. 

High instincts, before which our mortal nature 
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised, — 

But for those first affections, 

Those shadowy recollections. 

Which, be they what they may. 

Are yet the fountain-light of all our day. 

Are yet a master-light of all our seeing. 

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 

Of the eternal silence; truths that awake. 

To perish never, — 

Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor. 

Nor man nor boy. 

Nor all that is at enmity with joy. 

Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 

Hence in a season of calm weather. 

Though inland far we be. 

Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 


i 


320 


THE SIXTH READER. 


Which brought us hither, — 

Can in a moment travel thither, 

And see the children sport upon the shore. 

And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 

And 0, ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, 
Forebode not any severing of our loves ! 

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; 

I only have relinquished one delight 
To live beneath your more habitual sway. 

I love the brooks which down their channels fret, 
Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; 
The innocent brightness of a new-born day 
Is lovely yet; 

The clouds that gather round the setting sun 
Do take a sober coloring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality; 
Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
Thanks to tlie human heart by which we live. 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, — 

To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 


■•O*- 


LXXL —THE BIBLE. 

S TUDY how to be wise; and in all your gettings get un¬ 
derstanding. And especially would I urge upon your 
soul-wrapt attention that Book upon which all feelings, all 
opinions, are concentrated; which enlightens the judgment, 
while it enlists the sentiments, and soothes the imagination 
in songs upon the harp of the sweet songster of Israel.” 
The Book which gives you a faithful insight into your 
heart, and consecrates its character in 




THE BIBLE. 


321 


‘ ‘ Shrines 

Such as the keen tooth of time can never touch.” 

Would you know the effect of that Book upon the heart ? 
It purifies its thoughts and sanctifies its joys; it nerves 
and strengthens it for sorrow and the mishaps of life; and 
when these shall have ended, and the twilight of death is 
spreading its dew-damp upon the wasting features, it pours 
upon the last glad throb the bright and streaming light of 
Eternity’s morning. 0, have you ever stood beside the 
couch of a dying saint, when 

“ Without a sigh, 

A change of feature or a sliaded smile, 

He gave his hand to the stern messenger. 

And as a glad child seeks his father’s arms, 

Went home ” ? 

Then you have seen the deep, the penetrating influence 
of this Book. 

Would you know its name ? It is the Book of hooks, 
— its author, God, — its theme. Heaven, Eternity. The 
Bible ! Bead it, search it. Let it be first upon the shelves 
of your library, and first in the affections of your heart. 

Search the Scriptures, for in them ye think ye have eternal 
life; and they are they which testify of me.” 0, if there 
is sublimity in the contemplation of God, — if there is 
grandeur in the display of eternity, — if there is anything 
ennobling and purifying in the revelation of man’s salva¬ 
tion, search the Scriptures, for they are they which testify 
of these things! 


322 


THE SIXTH READER. 


LXXIL — WILLIAM TELL 

KNOWLES. 

James Sheridan Knowles was bom in Cork, Ireland, in 17S4 ; and died in 1862. 
He was the author of “ The Hunchback,” “ Virginius,” “ William Tell,” “The Wife,” 
and several other plays, some of which have been highly successful. He was origi¬ 
nally an actor and teacher of elocution, but in his latter years he was a zealous and 
eloquent preacher of the Baptist denomination. 

The following extract is from “ AVilliam Tell,” a play founded on the leading inci¬ 
dents in the life of the Swiss patriot of that name. Gesler (i)ronounced ^Ges'ler) is 
the Austrian governor of Switzerland, and Saruem one of his officers. 

William Tell, Albert, and Gesler. 

Gesler. What is thy name h 

Tell. My name % 

It matters not to keep it from thee now : 

^ly name is Tell. 

Ges. Tell, — William Tell! 

Tell. The same. 

Ges. What! he so famed ’hove all his countrymen 
Eor guiding o’er the stormy lake the boat h 
And such a master of his bow, ’t is said 
His arrows never miss ! Indeed, I ’ll take 
Exquisite vengeance ! Mark ! I ’ll spare thy life, — 

TJiy boy’s too, —both of you are free, — on one 
Condition. 

Tell. Xame it. 

Ges. I would see-you make 
A trial of your skill with that same bow 
Lou shoot so well with. 

Tell. Xame the trial you 
Would have me make. 

Ges. You look upon your boy 
As though instinctively you guessed it. 

Tell. Look upon my boy ! What mean you ? Look upon 
My boy as though I guessed it, — guessed the trial 


WILLIAM TELL. 323 

m 

You d have me make, — guessed it 

Instinctively ! You do not mean — No, — no, — 

You would have me make a trial of 
My skill upon my child! Impossible ! 

I do not guess your meaning. 

Ges. I would see 

Thee hit an apple at the distance of 
A hundred paces. 

Tell. Is my hoy to hold it ’I 
Ges. No, 

Tell. No ! — I ’ll send the arrow through the core ! 

Ges. It is to rest upon his head. 

Tell. Great Heaven, you hear him ! 

Ges. Thou dost hear the choice I give, — 

Such trial of the skill thou art master of. 

Or death to both of you ; not otherwise 
To be escaped. 

Tell. 0 monster! 

Ges. Wilt thou do it ? 

Albert. He will! he will! 

Tell. Ferocious monster! —make 
A father murder his own child! 

Ges. Take off 
His chains, if he consent. 

Tell. With his own hand! 

Ges, Does he consent 1 
Alb. He does. 

(Gesler signs to his offioevs, who proceed to take off Tell s chains. 
Tell all the time unconscious what they do.) 

Tell. With his own hand ! 

Murder his child with his own hand, this hand. 

The hand I’ve led him, when an infant, by! 

’T is beyond horror, — ’t is most horrible ! 

Amazement! {His chains fall off.) What s that you ve done 
to me. 


324 


THE SIXTH READER. 

Villains ! put on niy chains again. My hands 
Are free from blood, and have no gust for it, 

That they should drink my child’s ! Here ! here ! I ’ll not 
IMurder my boy for Gesler. 

Alb. Father, — father ! 

You will not hit me, father! 

Tell. Hit thee ! — Send 
The arrow through thy brain ; or, missing that, 

Shoot out an eye ; or, if thine eye escape. 

Mangle the cheek I’ve seen thy mother’s lips 
Cover with kisses ! — Hit thee, — hit a hair 
Of thee, and cleave thy mother’s heart — 

Ges. Dost thou consent 1 

Tell. Give me my bow and quiver. 

Ges. For what 

Tell. To shoot my boy ! 

Alb. Ho, father, — no ! 

To save me ! You ’ll be sure to hit the apple, — 

Will you not save me, father h 
Tell. Lead me forth ; 

I ’ll make the trial! 

Alb. Thank you! 

Tell. Thank me ! Do 

You know for what ? I will not make the trial. 

To take him to his mother in my arms. 

And lay him down a corpse before her! 

Ges. Then he dies this moment, —• and you certainly 
Do murder him whose life you have a chance 
To save, and will not use it. 

Tell. Well, — I ’ll do it: I ’ll make the trial. 

Alb. Father — 

Tell. Speak not to me : 

Let me not hear thy voice. Thou must be dumb; 

-iVnd so should all tilings be. Earth should be dumb, 

^Vnd Heaven, — unless its thunders muttered at 


WILLIAM TELL. 


325 


The deed, and sent a bolt to stop it! Give mo 
My bow and quiver ! 

Ges. When all’s ready. 

Tell. Well! Lead on ! 


LXXIIL —WILLIAM TELL. 

(concluded.) 

Persons. — Enter, slowly, people in evident distress, — Officers, Sar- 
NEM, Gesler, Tell, Albert, and Soldiers, — one hearing Tell’s 
how and quiver, another with a basket of applies. 

Ges. That is your ground. Xow shall they measure thence 
A hundred paces. Take the distance. 

Tell. Is the line a true one 'i 

Ges. True or not, what is’t to thee 'i 

Tell. What is’t to me "i A little thing, 

A very little thing ; a yard or two 
Is nothing here or there — were it a wolf 
I shot at! Xever mind. 

Ges. Be thankful, slave. 

Our grace accords thee life on any terms. 

Tell. I will be thankful, Gesler! — Yillain, stop ! 

You measure to the sun. 

Ges. And what of that 
What matter whether to or from the sun'? 

Tell.' I’d have it at my back ; the sun should shine 
Upon the mark, and not on him that shoots. 

I cannot see to shoot against the sun, — 

I will not shoot against the sun! 

Ges. Give him his way! Thou hast cause to bless my 

mercy. 

Tell. I shall remember it. 

The apple I’m to shoot at. 


I M like to see 



326 


THE SIXTH READER. 


Ges, Stay! show me the basket! There — 

Tell. You ’ve picked the smallest one. 

Ges. I know I have. 

Tell. Oh ! do you 1 — But you see 
The color on’t is dark, I’d have it light, 

To see it better. 

Ges. Take it as it is : 

Thy skill will be the greater if thou hit’st it. 

Tell. True, — true ! I did not think of that; I wonder 
I did not think of that. Give me some chance 
To save my boy ! {Throws away the apple with all his force.) 

I will not murder him. 

If I can help it — for the honor of 

The form thou wearest, if all the heart is gone. 

Ges. Well: choose thyself. 

Tell. Have I a friend among the lookers-on ? 

Verner. {Rushing forward.) Here, Tell. 

Tell. I thank thee, Verner ! 

He is a friend runs out into a storm 
To shake a hand with us. I must be brief: 

When once the bow is bent, we cannot take 
The shot too soon. Verner, whatever be 
The issue of this hour, the common cause 
Must not stand still. Let not to-morrow’s sun 
Set on the tyrant’s banner! Verner ! Verner! 

The boy ! —the boy ! Thinkest thou he hath the courage 
To stand it 1 
Ver. Yes. 

Tell. Does he tremble ? 

Ver. No. 

Tell. Art sure h 
V ER. I am. 

Tell. How looks he h 
Ver. Clear and smilingly : 

If you doubt it, look yourself. 


WILLIAM TELL. 


327 


Tell. No, — no, — my friend ; 

To hear it is enough. 

V ER. He bears himself so much above his years — 
Tell. I know, — I know ! 

Ver. With constancy so modest — 

Tell. I was sure he would ! 

Ver. And looks with such relying love 
And reverence upon you — 

Tell. Man ! Man ! Man ! 

No more ! Already I’m too much the father 
To act the man ! — Verner, no more, my friend ! 

I would be flint, — flint, — flint. Don’t make me feel 
I’m not, — do not mind me ! Take the boy 
And set him, Verner, with his back to me. 

Set him upon his knees, and place this apple 
Upon his head, so that the stem may front me, — 

Thus, Verner; charge him to keep steady, — tell him 
I ’ll hit the apple! Verner, do all this 
More briefly than I tell it thee. 

Ver. Come, Albert! {Leading Mm out.) 

Alb. May I not speak with him before I go ? 

Ver. No. 

Alb. I would only kiss his hand. 

Ver. You must not. 

Alb. I must! I cannot go from him without. 

Ver. It is his will you should. 

Alb. His will, is it h 
I am content then ; come. 

Tell. My boy ! {Holding^out Ms amns to Mm.) 

Alb. My father I {RusMng into Tell’s arms.) 

Tell. If thou canst bear it, should not I ? — Go, now, 
My son, and keep in mind that I can shoot — 

Go, boy, — be thou but steady, I will hit 

The apple. Go ! God bless thee, — go. — My bow ! — 

{TJic how is handed to Mm.) 


328 


THE SIXTH READER. 


Thou wilt not fail thy master, wilt thou 1 Thou 
Hast never Tilled him yet, old servant. Ho, 

I’m sure of thee ; I know thy honesty. 

Thou art stanch, — stanch. Let me see my quiver. 

Ges. Give him a single arrow. 

Tell. Do you shoot 1 
Sol. I do. 

Tell. Is it so you pick an arrow, friend 1 
The point, you see, is bent; the feather jagged : {Breaks it.) 
That’s all the use’t is fit for. 

Ges. Let him have another. 

Tell. Why, T is better than the first. 

But yet not good enough for such an aim 
As I’m to take, — T is heavy in the shaft : 

I ’ll not shoot with it! {Throws it away.) Let me see my quiver. 
Bring it! ’T is not one arrow in a dozen 
I’d take to shoot with at a dove, much less 
A dove like that. 

Ges. It matters not. 

Show him the quiver. 

Tell. See if the boy is ready. 

(Tell here hides an arrow under his vest.) 

Yer. He is. 

Tell. I’m ready, too ! Keep silent for 
Heaven’s sake, and do not stir; and let me have 
Your prayers, —your prayers ; and he my witnesses, 

That if his life’s in peril from my hand, 

’T is only for the chance of saving it. {To the people.) 

Ges. Go on. 

Tell. I will. 

0 friends, for mercy’s sake, keep motionless 
And silent! 

(Tell shoots ; a shout of exultation hursts from the crowd. Tell’s 
head drops on his bosom; he with difficulty supports himself 
upon his brow.) 


329 


THE BATTLE OF NASEBY. 

Ver. {Rushing in with Albert.) The boy is safe ! no hair of 
him is touched! 

Alb. Father, I’m safe !—your Albert's safe, dear father. 
Speak to me ! Speak to me ! 

Ver. He cannot, boy ! 

Alb. You grant him life ? 

Ges. I do. 

Alb. And we are free % 

Ges. You are. {Crossing angrily behind.) 

Alb. Thank Heaven ! — thank Heaven ! 

Ver. Open his vest, 

And give him air. 


(Albert opens his father's vest, and the arrow drops. Tell starts, 
fixes his eye on Albert, and clasps hiw, to his breast.) 

Tell. My boy ! — My boy ! 

Ges. For what 

Hid you tliat arrow in your breast ? Speak, slave ! 

Tell. To kill thee, tyrant, had I slain my boy ! 


LXXIV. —THE BATTLE OF XASEBY. 

MACAULAY. 

\ 

✓ 

Naseby is a small parish near Northampton, England, where the troops of Charles I. 
were totally defeated by the Parliamentary army under Fairfax in 1645. 

O H, wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the Xorth, 
With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red 1 
And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout 1 
And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye tread 1 

0, evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit. 

And crimson was the juice, of the vintage that we trod ! 

For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong. 
Who sat in the high places, and slew the saints of God. 



330 


THE SIXTH READER. 


It was about the noon of a glorious day of June, 

That we saw their banners dance, and their cuirasses shine; 
And the Man of Blood was there, with his long essenced hair, 
And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine. 

Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword, 

The general rode along us, to form us to the fight. 

When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into a shout, 
Among the godless horsemen, upon the tyrant’s right. 

And hark ! like the roar of the billows on the shore, 

The cry of battle rises along their charging line! 

For God ! for the Cause ! for the Church ! for the Laws ! 

For Charles, King of England, and Rupert of the Rhine ! 

The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums, 
His bravoes of Alsatia, and pages of Whitehall; 

They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your pikes, close your 
ranks. 

For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall. 

They are here ! They rush on ! We are broken ! We are gone ! 

Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast. 

0 Lord, put forth thy might! 0 Lord, defend the right! 
Stand back to back, in God’s name, and fight it to the last. 

Stout Skippon hath a wound ; the centre hath given ground; 
Hark ! hark ! what means this trampling of horsemen in our 
rear ] 

AVhose banner do I see, boys 1 ’T is he, thank God ! ’t is he, 
boys! 

Bear up another minute; brave Oliver is here. 

Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row. 

Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dikes; 



THE WIDOIF OF GLENCOE. 


331 


Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst, 
And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes. 

Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide 
Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar ; 
And he — he turns, he flies ; — shame on those cruel eyes 
That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war. 




LXXV. —THE WIDOW OF GLENCOE. 

AYTOUN. 

William Edmondstodne Aytoun was born in the county of Fife, in Scotland, in 
1813. He was called to the Scotch bar in 1840, and in 1845 was elected to the profes¬ 
sorship of rhetoric and belles-lettres in the University of Edinburgh, which he held 
until his death, August 4, 1865. He was a prominent contributor to ^‘Blackwood’s 
Magazine.” 

In the month of February, 1692, a number of persons of the clan of Macdonald, 
residing in Glencoe, a glen on the western coast of Scotland, were cruelly and treach¬ 
erously put to death, on the ground that their chief had not taken the oath of allegi¬ 
ance to the goveimment of King William within the time prescribed by his proclama¬ 
tion. A full and interesting account of the massacre may be found in Macaulay’s 
“History of England.” The following poem is supposed to be spoken by the widow 
of one of the victims. The captain of the company of soldiers by whom the massacre 
was peiTietrated was Campbell of Glenlyon. “The dauntless Graeme” was the Mar¬ 
quis of Montrose. 

D O not lift him from the bracken, leave him lying where 
he fell, — 

Better bier ye cannot fashion : none beseems him half so well 
As the bare and broken heather, and the hard and trampled sod, 
AVhence his angry soul ascended to the judgment-seat of God ! 
Winding-sheet we cannot give him, — seek no mantle for the 
dead. 

Save the cold and spotless covering showered from heaven upon 
his head. 

Leave his broadsword as we found it, rent and broken with the 
blow 

That, before he died, avenged him on the foremost of the foe. 




332 


THE SIXTH READER. 


Leave the blood upon his bosom, — wash not off that sacred 
stain ; 

Let it stiffen on the tartan, let his wounds unclosed remain. 

Till the day when he shall show them at the throne of God on 
high. 

When the murderer and the murdered meet before their 
Judge’s eye. 

Nay, — ye should not weep, my children ! leave it to the faint 
and weak; 

Sobs are but a woman’s weapons, — tears befit a maiden’s cheek. 

Weep not, children of Macdonald ! weep not thou, his orphan 
heir; 

Not in shame, but stainless honor, lies thy slaughtered father 
there. 

Weep not; but when years are over, and thine arm is strong 
and sure. 

And thy foot is swift and steady on the mountain and the muir, 

Let thy heart be hard as iron, and thy wrath as fierce as fire. 

Till the hour when vengeance cometh for the race that slew 
thy sire ! 

Till in deep and dark Glenlyon rise a louder shriek of woe, 

’I'lian at midnight, from their eyry, scared the eagles of Glencoe ; 

Louder than the screams that mingled with the howling of the 
blast, 

When the murderers’ steel was clashing, and the fires were 
rising fast; 

When thy noble father bounded to the rescue of his men. 

And the slogan of our kindred pealed throughout the startled 
glen; 

When the herd of frantic women stumbled through the mid¬ 
night snow. 

With their fathers’ houses blazing, and their dearest dead below ! 

0, the horror of the tempest, as the flashing drift was blown. 

Crimsoned with the conflagration, and the roofs went thuuder- 
iiiii down ! 





THE WIDOW OF GLENCOE. 


333 


0, the prayers, the prayers and curses, that together winged 
their flight 

From the maddened hearts of many, through that long and 
woful night! 

Till the fires began to dwindle, and the shots grew faint and few. 
And we heard the foeman’s challenge only in a far halloo : 

Till the silence once more settled o’er the gorges of the glen. 
Broken only by the Cona plunging through its naked den. 
Slowly from the mountain summit was the drifting veil with¬ 
drawn. 

And the ghastly valley glimmered in the gray December dawn. 
Better had the morning never dawned upon our dark despair! 
Black amidst the common whiteness rose the spectral ruins 
there : 

But the sight of these was nothing more than wrings the wild 
dove’s breast, 

When she searches for her offspring round the relics of her nest. 
For in many a spot the tartan peered above the wintry heap. 
Marking where a dead Macdonald lay within his frozen sleep. 
Tremblingly we scooped the covering from each kindred vic¬ 
tim’s head. 

And the living lips were burning on the cold ones of the dead. 
And I left them with their dearest, — dearest charge had every 
one, — 

Left the maiden with her lover, left the mother with her son. 

I alone of all was mateless, — far more wretched I than tliey. 
For the snow would not discover where my lord and husband lay. 
But I wandered up the valley, till I found him lying low. 
With the gash upon his bosom, and the frown upon his brow, — 
Till I found him lying murdered where he wooed me long ago ! 

Woman’s weakness shall not shame me, — why should I have 
tears to shed 1 

Could I rain them down like water, 0 my hero! on thy head. 
Could the cry of lamentation wake thee from thy silent sleep. 


334 


THE SIXTH READER. 


Could it set thy heart a-throhhing, it were mine to wail and 
weep! 

But I will not waste my sorrow, lest the Campbell women say 

That the daughters of Clanranald are as weak and frail as they. 

I had wept thee, hadst thou fallen, like our fathers, on thy 
shield. 

When a host of English foemen camped upon a Scottish field, — 

I had mourned thee, hadst thou perished with the foremost of 
his name. 

When the valiant and the noble died around the dauntless 
Grieme! 

But I will not wrong thee, husband, with my unavailing cries, 

Whilst thy cold and mangled body, stricken by the traitor, lies j 

Whilst he counts the gold and glory that this hideous night 
has won. 

And his heart is big with triumph at the murder he has done. 

Other eyes than mine shall glisten, other hearts be rent in twain, 

Ere the heath-bells on thy hillock wither in the autumn rain. 

Then I dl seek thee where thou sleepest, and I dl veil my weary 
head. 

Praying for a place beside thee, dearer than my bridal-bed : 

And I dl give thee tears, my husband, if the tears remain to me. 

When the widows of the foeman cry the coranach^ for thee ! 




LXXVI. —THE ANTIQUITY OF FEEEDOM. 

BRYANT. 


I 

I 

•» 

\ 

i 

I 


i 


i 

i 

*>• 


H EEE are old trees — tall oaks and gnarled pines — 

That stream with gray-green mosses; here the ground 
Was never trenched by spade, and flowers spring up 
Unsown, and die ungathered. It is sweet 

* A lamentation for the dead. 






THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM. 


O 


To linger here, among the flitting birds 

And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks, and winds 

that shake the leaves, and scatter, as they pass, 

A fragrance from the cedars, thickly set 

With pale blue berries. In these peaceful shades — 

Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old — 

My thoughts go up the long, dim path of years, 

Back to the earliest days of liberty. 

0 Freedom, thou art not, as poets dream, 

A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs, 

And wavy tresses, gushing from the cap 
With which the Roman master crowned his slave 
When he took ofi‘ the gyves ! A bearded man, 

Armed to the teeth, art thou; one mailed hand 
Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword; thy brow. 
Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred 
With tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs 
Are strong with struggling. Power at thee has launched 
His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee; 

They could not quench the life thou hast from Heaven. 
Merciless power has dug thy dungeon deep. 

And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires. 

Have forged thy chain ; yet while he deems thee bound, 
The links are shivered, and the prison walls 
Fall outward ; terribly thou springest forth, 

As springs the flame above a burning pile. 

And shoutest to the nations, who return 
Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies. 

Tliy birthright was not given by human hands ; 

Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields, 
While yet our race was few, thou sat’st with him. 

To tend the quiet flock, and watch the stars, 

And teach the reed to utter simple airs. 


336 


THE SIXTH READER. 


Thou, by his side, mid the tangled wood, 

Didst war upon the panther and the wolf. 

His only foes ; and thou with him didst draw 
The earliest furrows on the mountain-side, 

Soft with the deluge. Tyranny himself, 

Thy enemy, although of reverened look, 

Hoary with many years, and far obeyed, 

Is later born than thou; and as he meets 
The grave defiance of thine elder eye, 

The usurper trembles in his fastnesses. 

Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of years. 

But he shall fade into a feebler age; 

Feebler, yet subtler. He shall weave his snares. 

And spring them on thy careless steps, and clap 
His withered hands, and from their ambush call 
His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send 
Quaint maskers, forms of fair and gallant mien. 

To catch thy gaze, and utter graceful words 
To charm thy ear ; while his sly imps, by stealth. 

Twine round thee threads of steel, light thread on thread. 
That grow to fetters, or bind down thy arms 
With chains concealed in chaplets. 

0, not yet 

Mayst thou unbrace thy corselet, nor lay by 
Thy sword ; nor yet, 0 Freedom, close thy lids 
In slumber; for thine enemy never sleeps. 

And thou must watch and combat till the day 

Of the new earth and heaven ! But wouldst thou rest 

Awhile from tumult and the -frauds of men. 

These old and friendly solitudes invite 
Thy visit. They, while yet the forest trees 
Were young upon the unviolated earth. 

And yet the moss-stains on the rock were new. 

Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced. 




THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 


337 


LXXVIL —THE PILGEIM FATHEES. 


SPRAGUE. 


Charles Sprague was born in Boston, October 25, 1791, and has constantly re¬ 
sided here. He made himself first known as a poet by several prize prologues at the 
opening of theatres, which had a polish of numbers and a vigor of expression not 
often found in composition of this class. In 1823 he was the successful competitor 
for a prize offered for the best ode to be recited at a Shakespeare pageant at the Boston 
Theatre. This is the most fervid and brilliant of all his poems, and has much of the 
lyric rush and glow. In 1829 he recited a poem called “ Curiosity,” before the Phi 
Beta Kappa Society of Harvard College, which is polished in its versification, and 
tilled with carefully wrought and beautiful pictures. In 1830 lie pronounced an ode 
at the centennial celebration of the settlement of Boston (from which the following 
extract is taken), which is a finished and animated performance. He has also written 
many smaller pieces of much merit. ' 

Mr. Sprague presents an encouraging example of the union of practical business 
habits with the taste of a scholar and the sensibilities of a poet. He was for many 
years cashier of a bank, and performed his prosaic duties with as much attentiveness 
and skill as if he had never written a line of verse. 


EHOLD ! they come, — those sainted forms, 



-L->' Unshaken through the strife of storms; 
Heaven’s winter cloud hangs coldly down. 

And earth puts on its rudest frown; 

But colder, ruder, was the hand 

That drove them from their own fair land ; 

Their own fair land, — Eefinement’s chosen seat. 
Art’s trophied dwelling. Learning’s green retreat, — 
By valor guarded, and by victory crowned. 

For all, but gentle Charity, renowned. 

With streaming eye yet steadfast heart. 

Even from that land they dared to part. 

And burst each tender tie, — 

Haunts, where their sunny youth was passed ; 
Homes, where they fondly hoped at last 
In peaceful age to die ; 

Friends, kindred, comfort, all, they spurned; 

Their fathers’ hallowed graves; 

And to a world of darkness turned. 

Beyond a world of waves. 



THE SIXTH READER. 


When Israel’s race from bondage fled, 

Signs from on high the wanderers led; 

But here — Heaven hung no symbol here, 
Their steps to guide, their souls to cheer; 
They saw, through sorrow’s lengthening night 
Nought but the fagot’s guilty light; 

The cloud they gazed at was the smoke 
That round their murdered brethren broke. 

A fearful path they trod. 

And dared a fearful doom. 

To build an altar to their God, 

And And a quiet tomb. 

They come ; — that coming who shall tell 1 
The eye may weep, the heart may swell. 

But the poor tongue in vain essays 
A fitting note for them to raise. 

We hear the after-shout that rings 
Tor them who smote the power of kings : 

The swelling triumph all would share. 

But w’ho the dark defeat would dare. 

And boldly meet the wrath and woe 
That Wait the unsuccessful blow 1 
It were an envied fate, we deem. 

To live a land’s recorded theme. 

When we are in the tomb; 

We, too, might yield the joys of home, • 

And waves of winter darkness roam. 

And tread a shore of gloom, — 

Knew we those waves, through coming time. 
Should roll our names to every clime ; 

Felt we that millions on that shore » 
Should stand, our memory to adore. 

But no glad vision burst in light 
Upon the Pilgrims’ aching sight; 




THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 


339 


Their hearts no proud hereafter swelled ; 

Deep shadows veiled the way they held; . 

The yell of vengeance was their trump of fame, 
Their monument, a grave without a name. 

^et, strong in weakness, there they stand 
On yonder ice-bound rock, 

Stern and resolved, that faithful band. 

To meet Fate’s rudest shock. 

In grateful adoration now. 

Upon the barren sands they bow. 

What tongue e’er woke such prayer 
As bursts in desolation there*? 

' What arm of strength e’er wrought such power 
As waits to crown that feeble hour 1 
There into life an infant empire springs ! 

There falls the iron from the soul; 

There Liberty’s young accents roll 
Up to the King of kings ! 

To fair creation’s farthest bound 
That thrilling summons yet shall sound; 

The dreaming nations shall awake. 

And to their centre earth’s old kingdoms shake; 
Pontilf and prince, your sway 
Must crumble from that day : 

Before the loftier throne of Heaven 
The hand is raised, the pledge is given. 

One monarch to obey, one creed to own, — 

That monarch, God; that creed, his word alone. 

Spread out earth’s holiest records here. 

Of days and deeds to reverence dear; 

A zeal like this what pious legends tell 1 
On kingdoms built 
In blood and guilt. 


340 


THE SIXTH READER. 


The worshippers of vulgar triumph dwell; 

But what exploit with theirs shall page, 

Who rose to bless their kind, — 

Who left their nation and their age, 

Man’s spirit to unbind 1 
Who boundless seas passed o’er. 

And boldly met, in every path, 

Famine, and frost, and savage wrath. 

To dedicate a shore. 

Where Piety’s meek train might breathe their vow, 
And seek their Maker with an unshamed brow; 
Where Liberty’s glad race might proudly come. 
And set up there an everlasting home 1 

0 many a time it hath been told. 

The story of these men of old ! 

For this fair Poetry hath wreathed 
Her sweetest, purest flower ; 

For this proud Eloquence had breathed 
His strain of loftiest power ; 

Devotion, too, hath lingered round 
Each spot of consecrated ground. 

And hill and valley blessed, — 

There, where our banished fathers strayed. 

There, where they loved and wept and prayed. 
There, where their ashes rest, — 

And never may they rest unsung. 

While Liberty can find a tongue. 

Twine, Gratitude, a wreath for them 
More deathless than the diadem. 

Who, to life’s noblest end. 

Gave up life’s noblest powers. 

And bade the legacy descend 
Down, down to us and ours. 



N C -- 

WOLSEY AND CROMWELL. 341 

/ 

LXXVIII—WOLSEY AND CROMWELL. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

The following scene is taken from the historical play of “ King Henry VIII.” 
Cardinal Wolsey had been prime minister of England, the possessor of enormous 
wealth and unbounded power, but, in losing the favor of the king, had lost all. Crom¬ 
well was a friend and member of his household, who remained faithful to his benefac¬ 
tor in his fallen fortunes. 

W OL. Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness! 

This is the state of man : To-day he jmts forth 
The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms. 

And bears his blushing honors thick upon him ; 

The third day comes a frost, a killing frost. 

And — Avhen he tliinks, good easy man, full surely 
His greatness is a-ripening — nips his root; 

And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured. 

Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, 

This many summers, in a sea of glory; 

But far beyond my depth ; my high-blown pride 
At length broke under me, and now has left me, , 

AYeary and old with service, to the mercy 
Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. 

Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye : 

> I feel my heart new opened. 0, how wretched 
Is that poor man that hangs on princes’ favors ! 

There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to. 

That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,'^ 

More pangs and fears than wars or women have j 
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, 

Never to hope again. — 

Enter Cromwell, amazedly. 

AVhy, how now, Cromwell h 
Crom. I have no power to speak, sir. 

* That is, the min which princes inflict. 


342 


THE SIXTH READER. 


WOL. 


What, amazed 


At my misfortunes ? Can thy sj^irit wonder 
A great man should decline h Nay, and you weep 
I am fallen indeed. 


Crom. 

WoL. 


How does your grace % 


Why, well; 


Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell. 

I know myself now ; and I feel within me 
A peace above all earthly dignities, 

A still and quiet conscience. The king has cured me, — 

I humbly thank his grace, — and from these shoulders. 

These ruined pillars, out of pity, taken 
A load would sink a navy, — too much honor. 

0, ’t is a burden, Cromwell, ’t is a burden 
Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven ! 

Crom. I am glad your grace has made that right use of it. 
WoL. I hope I have. I am able now, methinks, 

(Out of a fortitude of soul I feel,) 

To endure more miseries, and greater far, 

Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer. 

What news abroad 1 

Crom. The heaviest, and the worst. 

Is your displeasure with the king. 

WoL. God bless him ! 

Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen 
Lord Chancellor, in your place. 

WoL. That’s somewhat sudden ; 

Ilut he’s a learned man. May he continue 
Long in his Highness’s favor, and do justice 
Lor truth’s sake, and his conscience; that his bones. 

When he has run his course, and sleeps in blessings. 

May have a tomb of orphans’ tears wept on ’em ! 

What more 1 

Crom. That Cranmer is returned with welcome. 

Installed Lord Archbishop of Canterbury. 



WOLSEY AND CROMWELL. 


34 


WoL. That’s news, indeed. 

Crom. Last, that the Lady Anne,* 

Whom the king hath in secrecy long married. 

This day was viewed in open, as his queen. 

Going to chapel; and the voice is now 
Only about her coronation. 

WoL. There was the weight that pulled me down ! 
Cromwell, 

The king has gone beyond me ; all my glories 
In that one woman I have lost forever! 

No sun shall ever usher forth mine honors. 

Or gild again the noble troops that waited 

Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell; 

I am a poor, fallen man, unworthy now 
To be thy lord and master. Seek the king: 

That sun, I pray, may never set! I have told him 
AVhat and how true thou art; he will advance thee; 

Some little memory of me will stir him 

(I know his noble nature) not to let 

Thy hopeful service perish too. Good Cromwell, 

Neglect him not; make use now, and provide 
For thine own future safety. 

Crom. 0 my lord, 

> Must I then leave you ? Must I needs forego 
So good, so noble, and so true a master 1 ' • 

Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron, 

With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord. 

The king shall have my service; but my prayers 
Forever, and forever, shall be yours. 

WoL. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear 
In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me, 

•Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. 

Let’s dry our eyes ; and thus far hear me, Cromwell; 

And — when I am forgotten, as I shall be, 

* Anne Boleyn, the second wife of King Henry VIII. 


344 


THE SIXTH READER. 


And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention 
Of me more must be heard of — say, I taught thee; 

Say, Wolsey — that once trod the ways of glory. 

And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor — 

Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in; 

A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it. 

Mark ]5ut my fall, and that that ruined me. 

Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition : 

By that sin fell the angels : how can man, then. 

The image of his Maker, hope to win by T1 

Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee; 

Corruption wins not more than honesty : 

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace. 

To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not. 

Let all the ends thou aim’st at be thy country’s. 

Thy God’s, and truth’s ; then, if thou fall’st, 0 Cromwell, 
Thou fall’st a blessed martyr! Serve the king; 

And — Prithee, lead me in : 

There take an inventory of all I have. 

To the last penny ; ’t is the king’s ; my robe, 

And my integrity to Heaven, is all 
I dare now call mine own. 0 Cromwell, Cromwell, 

Had I but served my God with half the zeal 
I served my king, he would not in mine age 
Have^left me naked to mine enemies ! 

Crom. ‘Good sir, have patience. 

WoL. So I have. Farewell 

The hopes of court! my hopes in heaven do dwell. 












DANGERS TO OUR REPUBLIC. 


345 


LXXIX.—DANGERS TO OUR REPUBLIC. 


HORACE MANN. 


The following is an extract from an oration delivered July 4, 1842, before the au¬ 
thorities of Boston. 



EHOLD, on this side, crowding to the polls, and 


even candidates for the highest offices in the gift of 
the people, are men whose hands are red with a brother’s 
blood, slain in private quarrel! Close pressing upon these 
urges onward a haughty band glittering in wealth; but, 
for every flash that gleams from jewel and diamond, a 
father, a mother, and helpless children have been stolen, 
and sold into ransomless bondage. 

Invading the;r ranks, struggles forward a troop of riot¬ 
ous incendiaries, who have hitherto escaped the retribu¬ 
tions of law, and would now annihilate the law whose 
judgments they fear. Behind these pours on, tumultuous, 
the chaotic rout of atheism; and yonder dashes forward 
a sea of remorseless life, — thousands and ten thousands, 
— condemned by the laws of God and man. 

In all the dread catalogue of mortal sins, there is not 
‘ one but, in that host, there are hearts which have willed 
and hands which have perpetrated it. 

The gallows has spared its victim, the prison has released 
its tenants; from dark cells, where malice had brooded, 
where revenge and robbery had held their nightly rehear¬ 
sals, the leprous multitude is disgorged, and comes up to 
the ballot-box to foredoom the destinies of this nation. 

But look again, on the other side, at that deep and 
dense array of ignorance, whose limits the eye cannot 
discover. Its van leans against us here, its rear, is beyond 
the distant hills. They, too, in this hour of their coun-> 


346 


THE SIXTH READER. 


try’s peril, have come up to turn the folly of which they 
are unconscious into measures which they cannot under¬ 
stand, by votes which they cannot read. Nay more, and 
worse! for, from the ranks of crime, emissaries are sally¬ 
ing forth towards the ranks of ignorance, and hying to 
and fro amongst them, shouting the war-cries of faction, 
and flaunting banners with lying symbols, such as cheat 
the eye of a mindless brain; and thus the hosts of crime 
are to lead on the hosts of ignorance in their assault upon 
Liberty and Law! 

What now shall be done to save the citadel of freedom, 
where are treasured all the hopes of posterity ? Or, if we 
can survive the peril of such a day, what shall he done to 
prevent the next generation from sending forth still more 
numerous hordes, afflicted with deeper blindness and in¬ 
cited by darker depravity ? 

Are there any here who would counsel us to save the 
people from themselves, by wresting from their hands 
this formidable right of ballot ? Better for the man who 
would propose this remedy to an infuriated multitude, 
that he should stand in the lightning’s path as it descends 
from heaven to earth. 

And answer me this question, you who would recon¬ 
quer for the few the power which has been won by the 
many, — you who would disfranchise the common mass of 
mankind, and recondemn them to become Helots and 
bondmen and feudal serfs, — tell me were they again in 
the power of your castes, would you not again neglect 
them, again oppress them, again make them slaves ? 

Tell me, you royalists and hierarchs, or advocates of 
royalty and hierarchy, were the poor and the ignorant 
again in your power, to he tasked and tithed at your 
pleasure, would you not turn another Ireland into paupers, 
and colonize another Botany Bay with criminals ? 


HALLOWED GROUND. 


347 


0, better, far better, that the atheist and the blasphemer, 
and he who, since the last setting sun, has dyed his hands 
in parricide, or his soul in sacrilege, should challenge 
equal political power with the wisest and the best! 

Better that these blind Samsons, in the wantonness of 
their gigantic strength, should tear down the pillars of 
the Bepublic, than that the great lesson which Heaven, 
for six thousand years, has been teaching to the world, 
should be lost upon it, — the lesson that the intellectual 
and moral nature of man is the one thing precious in the 
sight of God, and therefore that, until this nature is 
cultivated and enlightened and purified, neither opu¬ 
lence nor power, nor learning nor genius, nor domestic 
sanctity nor the holiness of God’s altars, can ever be safe. 

Until the immortal and godlike capacities of every 
being that comes into the world are deemed more worthy, 
are watched more tenderly, than any other thing, no 
dynasty of men, or form of government, can stand or 
shall stand upon the face of the earth; and the force 
or the fraud which would seek to uphold them shall be 
but “ as fetters of flax to bind the flame.” 


LXXX. — HALLOWED GEOUXD. 


CAMPBELL. 



HAT’s hallowed ground 1 Has earth a clod 
Its Maker meant not should be trod 


By man, the image of his God, 
Erect and free, 

Unsconrged by Superstition’s rod 
To bow the knee ? 




348 


THE SIXTH READER. 




Is’t death to fall for Freedom’s right ? 

He’s dead alone that lacks her light! 

And murder sullies in Heaven’s sight 
The sword he draws. 

What can alone ennoble fight h 
A noble cause ! 

Give that! and welcome War to brace 

Her drums ! and rend Heaven’s reeking space ! 

The colors planted face to face, 

The charging cheer, 

Though Death’s pale horse lead on the chase. 
Shall still be dear. 

• 

And place our trophies where men kneel 
To Heaven ! but Heaven rebukes my zeal. 

0 God above! 

The cause of Truth and human weal. 

Transfer it from the sword’s appeal 
To Peace and Love. 

Peace, Love ! the cherubim that join 
Their spread wings o’er Devotion’s shrine. 
Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine, 
Where they are not : 

The heart alone can make divine 
Eeligion’s spot. 

To incantations dost thou trust. 

And pompous rites in domes august 1 
See mouldering stones and metal’s rust 
Belie the vaunt 

That men can bless one pile of dust 
AVith chime or chant. 



HALLOWED GROUND. 


349 


The tickin" woodworm mock thee, man! 

Thy temples — creeds themselves grow wan, 

But there’s a dome of nobler span, 

A temple given 

Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban, — 

Its space is Heaven ! 

Its roof star-pictured Nature’s ceiling. 

Where, trancing the rapt spirit’s feeling, 

- And God himself to man revealing. 

The harmonious spheres 
Make music, though unheard in the pealing 
By mortal ears. 

Fair stars ! are not your beings pure ? 

Can sin, can death, your worlds obscure 'i 
Else why so swell the thoughts at your 
Aspect above 'I 

Ye must be Heavens that make us sure 
Of heavenly love! 

And in your harmony sublime 
I read the doom of distant time ; 

That man’s regenerate soul from crime 
Shall yet be drawn, ^ 

And reason on his mortal clime 
Immortal dawn. 

What’s hallowed ground ? ’T is what gives birth 
To sacred thoughts in souls of worth ! — 

Peace ! Independence ! Truth ! go forth 
Earth’s compass round ; 

And your higli-priesthood shall make earth 
All hallowed ground I 


350 


THE SIXTH READER. 


LXXXI. — THE EXECUTIOX OF* MOXTEOSE. 

AYTOUN. 

The following extract is from the “Lays of the Scotch Cavaliers,” a collection of 
stirring ballads illustrating the history of Scotland. 

James Graham, Marquis of Montrose, was executed in Edinburgh, May 21, 1650, 
for an attempt to overthrow the power of the Commonwealth, and restore Charles II. 
The ballad is a narrative of the event, supposed to be related by an aged Highlander, 
who had followed Montrose throughout his campaigns, to his grandson, Evan Came¬ 
ron. Lochaber is a district of Scotland in the southwestern part of the county of 
Inverness. Dundee is a seaport town in the county of Forfar. Inverlochy was a 
castle in Inverness-shire. Montrose was betrayed by a man named MacLeod of As- 
synt. Dunedin is the Gaelic name for Edinburgh. Warristoun was Archibald John¬ 
ston of Warristoun, an inveterate enemy of Montrose. 

OME hither, Evan Cameron ! ’ Come, stand beside my 
^ knee: 

r hear the river roaring down towards the wintry sea; 

There’s shouting on the mountain-side, there’s war within the 
blast. 

Old faces look upon me, old forms go trooping past; 

I hear the pibroch^'^ wailing amidst the din of fight, 

And my dim sjiirit wakes again upon the verge of night. 

’T was I that led the Highland host through wild Lochaber’s 
snows, 

What time the plaided clans came down to battle with Mon¬ 
trose. 

I’ve told thee how the Southrons fell beneath the broad clay¬ 
more. 

And how we smote the Campbell clan by Inverlochy’s 
shore. 

I’ve told thee how we swept Dundee, and tamed the Lindsay’s 
pride; 

But never have I told thee yet how the Great Marquis 
died ! 

* An air played on the hagpii^e before the Highlanders, when they go out 
to battle. 


THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE. 


351 


A traitor sold him to his foes, — 0 deed of deathless shame ! 

1 charge thee, boy, if e’er thou meet with one of Assynt’s 
name, — 

Be it upon the mountain’s side, or yet within the glen. 

Stand he in martial gear alone, or backed by armed men, — 
Face him, as thou wouldst face the man who wronged thy 
sire’s renown; 

Bemember of what blood thou art, and strike the caitiff down. 

They brought him to the Watergate, hard bound with hempen 
span. 

As though they held a lion there, and not an unarmed man. 
They set him high upon a cart, — the hangman rode below, — 
They drew his hands behind his back, and bared his noble 
brow: 

Then, as a hound is slipped from leash, they cheered, -— the 
common throng, — 

And blew the note with yell and shout, and bade him pass along. 

But when he came, though pale and wan, he looked so great 
and high. 

So noble was his manly front, so calm his steadfast eye. 

The rabble rout forbore to shout, and each man held his breath, 
For well they knew the hero’s soul was face to face with death. 
'And then a mournful shudder through all the people crept. 
And some that came to scoff at him now turned aside and wept. 

Had I been there with sword in hand, and fifty Camerons by. 
That day through high Dunedin’s streets had pealed the slogan* 
cry. 

Not all their troops of trampling horse, nor might of mailed men. 
Not all the rebels in the South, had borne us backwards then! 
Once more his foot on Highland heath had trod as free as air. 
Or I, and all who bore my name, been laid around him there. 

* The war-cry of a clan. 


352 


THE SIXTH READER. 


It luiglit not be. They placed, him next within the solemn hall, 
Where once the Scottish kings were throned amidst their 
nobles all. 

But there was dust of vulgar feet on that polluted floor, ^ 
And perjured traitors filled the place where good men sat before. 
AVith savage glee came AA^arristoun to read the murderous doom. 
And then uprose the great Montrose in the middle of the room. 

Now by my faith as belted kniglit, and by the name I bear. 
And by the bright Saint Andrew’s cross that waves above us 
there, — 

Yea, by a greater, mightier oath, and 0, that such should be ! 
By that dark stream of royal blood that lies ’twixt you and 
me, — 

I have not sought in battle-field a wreath of such renown. 

Nor hoped I, on my dying day, to win a martyr’s crown ! 

The morning dawned full darkly, the rain came flashing down. 
And the jagged streak of the levin-bolt lit up the gloomy town ; 
The thunder crashed across the heaven, the fatal hour was come. 
Yet aye broke in, with muffled beat, the ’larum of the drum. 
There was madness on the earth below, and anger in the sky, 
Ann young and old, and rich and poor, came forth to see him die. 

Ah God ! that ghastly gibbet! how dismal’t is to see 
The great, tall, spectral skeleton, the ladder, and the tree ! 

Hark! hark ! it is the clash of arms, the bells begin to toll, — 
He is coming ! he is coming ! God’s mercy on his soul! 

One last long peal of thunder, —the clouds are cleared away, 
And the glorious sun once more looks down amidst the dazzling 
day. 

He is coming ! he is coming! — Like a bridegroom from his 
room 

Came the hero from his prison to the scaffold and the doom. 


AMERICAN NATIONALITY. 


353 


There was glory on his forehead, there was lustre in his eye, 
And he never walked to battle more proudly than to die : 
There was color in his visage, though the cheeks of all were wan, 
And they marvelled as they saw him pass, that great and goodly 
man ! 

A beam of light fell o’er him, like a glory round the shriven. 
And he climbed the lofty ladder, as it were the path to heaven. 
Then carue a flash from out the cloud, and a stunning thunder 
roll. 

And no man dared to look aloft, for fear was on every soul. 
There was another heavy sound, a hush and then a groan; 

And darkness swept across the sky, — the work of death was 


done! 


LXXXII. — AMEEICAX XATIOXALITY. 


CHOATE. 


Rufus Choate was Ijorn in Essex, Massachusetts, October 1, 1799 ; and died July 
13, 1859. He was graduated at Dartmouth College in 1819, and admitted to the bar 
in 1824. He practised his profession first at Danvers, then at Salem, and for the last 
twenty-five years of his life at Boston. He was chosen to the House of Representa¬ 
tives in 1832, and served there a single term. He was a member of the Senate from 
February, 1841, to March, 1845. He was a brilliant and eloquent advocate, with un¬ 
rivalled power over a jury, a thoroughly instructed lawyer, and a scholar of wide 
range and various cultivation. His writings, consisting of lectures, addresses, and 
speeches, are distinguished by a combination of logical power and imaginative splen¬ 
dor. The following extract is from an oration delivered in Boston on the eighty- 
second anniversary of American Independence, July 5, 1858. 


UT now, by the side of this and all antagonisms 



JL^ higher than they, stronger than they, there rises 
colossal the fine, sweet spirit of nationality, — the nation¬ 
ality of America. See there the pillar of fire which God 
has kindled, and lifted, and moved, for our hosts and 
our ages. Gaze on that, worship that, worship the 
highest in that. 




354 


THE SIXTH READER. 


Between that light and our eyes a cloud for a time 
may seem to gather; chariots, armed men on foot, the 
troops of kings, may march on ns, and onr fears may 
make ns for a moment turn from it; a sea may spread 
before ns, and waves seem to hedge ns np; dark idolatries 
may alienate some hearts for a season from that worship; 
revolt, rebellion, may break ont in the camp, and the wa¬ 
fers of onr springs may rnn bitter to the taste, and mock 
it; between us and that Canaan a great river may seem 
to be rolling: but beneath that high guidance onr way is 
onward, ever onward. 

Those waters shall part, and stand on either hand in 
heaps ; that idolatry shall repent; that rebellion shall be 
crushed; that stream shall be sweetened; that overflowing 
river shall be passed on foot, dry-shod, in harvest-time.; 
and from that promised land of flocks, fields, tents, moun¬ 
tains, coasts, and ships, from north and south, and east 
and west, there shall swell one cry yet of victory, peace, 
and thanksgiving!' 

But we were seeking the nature of the spirit of nation¬ 
ality, and we pass in this inquiry from contrast to anal¬ 
ysis. You may call it, in one aspect, a mode of con¬ 
templating the nation in its essence, and so far it is an 
intellectual conception; and you may call it a feeling 
towards the nation thus contemplated, and so far it is an 
emotion. In the intellectual exercise, it contemplates 
the nation as it is one, and as it is distinguished from all 
other nations ; and in the emotional exercise it loves it, 
and is proud of it, as thus it is contemplated. 

This you may call its ultimate analysis. But how much 
more is included in it! How much flows from it! How 
cold and inadequate is such a description, if we leave it 
there! Think of it first as a state of consciousness, as 


AMERICAN NATIONALITY. 


355 


a spring of feeling, as a motive to exertion, as blessing 
your country, and as reacting on you! Think of it as 
it fills your mind and quickens your heart, and as it 
fills the mind and quickens the heart of millions around 
you! 

Instantly, under such an influence, you ascend above 
the smoke and stir of this small local strife; you tread 
upon the high places of the earth and of history; you 
think and feel as an American for America; her power, 
her eminence, her consideration, her honor, are yours; 
your competitors, like hers, are kings; your home, like 
hers, is the world ; your path, like hers, is on the highway 
of empires; your charge, her charge, is of generations and 
ages; your record, her record, is of treaties, battles, voy¬ 
ages, beneath all the constellations; her image, one, im¬ 
mortal, golden, rises on your eye as our western star at 
evenin" rises on the traveller from his home ; no lowering 
cloud, no angry river, no lingering spring, no broken cre¬ 
vasse, no inundated city or plantation, no tracts of sand, 
arid and burning on that surface, but all blended and soft¬ 
ened into one beam of kindred rays, the image, harbinger, 
and promise of love, hope, and a brighter day! 

But if you would contemplate nationality as an active 
virtue, look around you. Is not our own history one wit¬ 
ness and one record of what it can do ? This day and 
all which it stands for, — did it not give us these ? This 
glory of the fields of that war, this eloquence of that revo¬ 
lution, this one wide sheet of flame, which wrapped tyrant 
and tyranny, and swept all that escaped from it away, 
forever and forever; the courage to fight, to retreat, to 
rally, to advance, to guard the young flag by the young 
arm and the young heart’s blood, to hold up and hold on, 
tiU the magnificent consummation crowned the work,— 


THE SIXTH READER. 


356 

t 

were not all these imparted or inspired by this imperial 
sentiment ? 

Has it not here begun the master-work of man, the 
creation of a national life ? Did it not call out that pro¬ 
digious development of wisdom, the wisdom of con¬ 
structiveness which illustrated the years after the war, 
and the framing and adopting of the Constitution ? Has 
it not, in general, contributed to the administering of that 
government wisely and well since ? 

Look at it! It has kindled us to no aims of conquest. 
It has involved us in no entangling alliances. It has kept 
our neutrality dignified and just. The victories of peace 
have been our prized victories. But the larger and truer 
grandeur of the nations, for which they are created, and 
for which they must one day, before some tribunal, give 
account, what a measure of these it has enabled us already 
to fulfil! It has lifted us to the throne, and has set on 
our brow the name of the Great Eepublic. It has taught 
us to demand nothing wrong, and to submit to nothing 
wrong; it has made our diplomacy sagacious, wary, and 
accomplished; it has opened the iron gate of the moun¬ 
tain, and planted our ensign on the great tranquil sea. 

It has made the desert to bud and blossom as the rose; 
it has quickened to life the giant brood of useful arts; it 
has whitened lake and ocean with the sails of a darin" 

O’ 

new, and lawful trade; it has extended to exiles, flying as 
clouds, the asylum of our better liberty. 

It has kept us at rest within all our borders; it has 
repressed without blood the intemperance of local insubor¬ 
dination ; it has scattered the seeds of liberty, under law 
and under order, broadcast; it has seen and helped Amer¬ 
ican feeling to swell into a fuller flood; from many a field 
and many a deck, though it seeks not war, makes not 


THE RISING IN 1776. 


357 


war, and fears not war, it has borne the radiant flag, all 
unstained; it has opened our age of lettered glory ; it 
has opened and honored the age of the industry of the 
people! 


LXXXIIL —THE EISIXG IX 1776. 

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 

Thomas Buchanan Read was born in Chester County, Pennsylvania, March 12, 
2822. He is a portrait-painter by profession, but has juiblished several volumes of 
poetry, among which are many pieces of decided merit. He has also edited a work 
entitled “ Specimens of the Female Poets of America.” 

O UT of the Xorth the wild news came, 

Far flashing on its wings of flame, 

Swift as the boreal light which flies 
At midnight through the startled skies. 

And there was tumult in the air, 

The fife’s shrill note, the drum’s loud beat. 

And through the wide land everywhere 
The answering tread of hurrying feet; 

While the first oath of Freedom’s gun 
Came on the blast from Lexington; 

And Concord, roused, no longer tame. 

Forgot her old baptismal name. 

Made hare her patriot arm of power. 

And swelled the discord of the hour. 

Within its shade of elm and oak 

The church of Berkley Manor stood ; 

There Sunday found the rural folk. 

And some esteemed of gentle blood. 

In vain their feet with loitering tread 
Passed mid the graves where rank is naught; 

All could not read the lesson taught 
In that republic of the dead. 




358 


THE SIXTH READER. 


How sweet the hour of Sabbath talk, 

The vale with peace and sunshine full 
Where all the happy people walk, 

Decked in their homespun flax and wool'! 
Where youth’s gay hats with blossoms bloom 
And every maid, with simple art. 

Wears on her breast, like her own heart, 

A bud whose depths are all perfume; 

While every garment’s gentle stir 
Is breathing rose and lavender. 

The pastor came; his snowy locks 

Hallowed his brow of thought and care; 

And calmly, as shepherds lead their flocks. 

He led into the house of prayer. 

The pastor rose; the prayer was strong; 

The psalm was warrior David’s song; 

The text, a few short words of might, — 

“ The Lord of hosts shall arm the right! ” 

He spoke of wrongs too long endured. 

Of sacred rights to be secured ; 

Then from his patriot tongue of flame 
The startling words for Freedom came. 

The stirring sentences he spake 
Compelled the heart to glow or quake. 

And, rising on his theme’s broad wing. 

And grasping in his nervous hand 
The imaginary battle-brand. 

In face of death he dared to fling 
Defiance to a tyrant king. 

Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed 
In eloquence of attitude, 

Itose, as it seemed, a shoulder higher ] 

Then swept his kindling glance of fire 
From startled pew to breathless choir; 


THE RISING IN 1776. 


When suddenly his mantle wide 
His hands impatient flung aside, 

And, lo ! he met their wondering eyes 
Complete in all a warrior’s guise. 

A moment there was awful pause, — 

When Berkley cried, “ Cease, traitor ! cease 
God’s temple is the house of peace ! ” 

The other shouted, “Nay, not so, 

When God is with our righteous cause) 

His holiest places then are ours. 

His temples are our forts and towers. 

That frown upon the tyrant foe; 

In this, the dawn of Freedom’s day. 

There is a time to fight and pray! ” 

And now before the open door — 

The warrior priest had ordered so — 

The enlisting trumpet’s sudden roar 
Hang through the chapel, o’er and o’er, 

Its long reverberating blow. 

So loud and clear, it seemed the ear 
Of dusty death must wake and hear. 

And there the startling drum and fife 
Fired the living with fiercer life ; 

While overhead, with wild increase. 
Forgetting its ancient toll of peace. 

The great bell swung as ne’er before : 

It seemed as it would never cease; 

And every word its ardor flung 
From off its jubilant iron tongue 
Was, “War! War! War!” 

“ Who dares ” — this was the patriot’s cry. 
As striding from the desk he came — 

“ Come out with me, in Freedom’s name, 


360 


THE SIXTH READER. 


For her to live, for her to die 1 ” 
A hundred hands flung up reply, 
A hundred voices answered, 


LXXXIV. — GOD. 


DERZHAVIN. 


Gabriel Romanovitch Derzhavin, a Russian lyrical poet, was bom in Kasan, 
July 3, 1743 ; and died July 6, 1816. He gained distinction in the military and civil 
service of his country, and was made Secretary of State in 1791 by Catherine II. The 
following poem has been translated, not only into many European languages, but 
into those of China and Japan. It is said to have been hung up in the palace of the 
Emperor of China, printed in gold letters on white satin. Sir John Bowring, in his 
“ Specimens of the Russian Poets,” published in 1821, was the first person who made 
the readers of England and America acquainted with the writings of Derzhavin and 
othex- Russian poets. 

O THOU eternal One ! whose presence bright 
All space doth occupy, all motion guide : 
Unchanged through time’s all devastating flight; 

Thou only God ! There is no God beside ! 

Being above all beings ! Mighty One ! 

Whom none can comprehend and none explore; 

Who fill’st existence with Thyself alone : 

Embracing all, — supporting, — ruling o’er, — 

Being whom we call God, — and know no more ! 


In its sublime research, philosophy 
May measure out the ocean-deep, — may count 
The sands or the sun’s rays, — but God ! for thee 
There is no weight nor measure; none can mount 
Up to thy mysteries. Eeason’s brightest spark. 
Though kindled by thy light, in vain would try 
To trace thy counsels, infinite and dark; 

And thought is lost ere thought can soar so high. 
Even like past moments in eternity. 




GOD. 


361 


Thou from primeval nothingness didst call, 

First chaos, then existence : Lord ! on thee 

Eternity had its foundation : all 

Sprung forth from thee : of light, joy, harmony. 

Sole origin : all life, all beauty thine. 

Thy word created all, and doth create; 

Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine. 

Thou art, and wert, and shalt be ! Glorious ! Great! 
Light-giving, life-sustaining Potentate! 

Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround. 

Upheld by thee, by thee inspired with breath! 

Thou the beginning with the end hast bound, 

And beautifully mingled life and death! 

As sparks mount upwards from the fiery blaze. 

So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from thee : 
And as the spangles in the sunny rays 
Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry 
Of heaven’s bright army glitters in thy praise. 

A million torches lighted by thy hand 
Wander unwearied through the blue abyss : 

They own thy power, accomplish thy command. 

All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. 

What shall we call them 1 Piles of crystal light, — 

A glorious company of golden streams, — 

Lamps of celestial ether burning bright, — 

Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams'? 

But thou to these art as the noon to night. 

Yes ! as a drop of water in the sea, 

All this magnificence in thee is lost. 

What are ten thousand worlds compared to thee ? 

And what am I then ? Heaven’s unnumbered host, 
Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed 


2 


TEE SIXTH READER. 


In all the glory of sublimest thought, 

Is hut an atom in the balance ; weighed 
Against thy greatness, is a cipher brought 
Against infinity ! 0, what am I then h Naught 

Naught! yet the effluence of thy light divine, 
Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom too; 
Yes! in my spirit doth thy spirit shine. 

As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew. 

Naught! yet I live, and on hope’s pinions fly 
Eager towards thy presence ; for in thee 
I live, and breathe, and dwell; aspiring higli. 
Even to the throne of thy divinity. 

I am, 0 God ! and surely thou must be ! 

Thou art! directing, guiding all, thou art! 

Direct my understanding, then, to thee; 

Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart: 
Though but an atom midst immensity. 

Still I am something, fashioned by thy hand ! 

I hold a middle rank ’twixt heaven and earth. 

On the last verge of mortal being stand. 

Close to the realms where angels have their birth, 
Just on the boundaries of the spirit-land ! 

The chain of being is complete in me ; 

In me is matter’s last gradation lost. 

And the next step is spirit, — Deity ! 

I can command the lightning, and am dust! 

A monarch, and a slave; a worm, a god ! 

Whence came I here 1 and how so marvellously 
Constructed and conceived ? unknown ! this clod 
Lives surely through some higher energy j 
For from itself alone it could not be ! 


V 


AROUND YOSEMITE WALLS. 

Creator, yes ! thy wisdom and thy word 
Created me ! thou source of life and good ! 
Thou spirit of my spirit, and my Lord ! 

Ihy light, thy love, in their bright plenitude 
Filled me witli an immortal soul, to spring 
Over the abyss of death, and bade it wear 
The garments of eternal day, and wing 
Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere. 
Even to its source, — to thee, its Author there 

0 thoughts ineffable ! - 0 visions blest! 
Though worthless our conceptions all of thee. 
Yet shall thy shadowed image fill our breast. 
And waft its homage to thy Deity. 

God ! thus alone my lonely thoughts can soar; 
Thus seek thy presence. Being wise and good ! 
Midst thy vast works admire, obey, adore; 
And when the tongue is eloquent no more. 

The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude. 


LXXXV. — ABOUND YOSEMITE WALLS. 

CLARENCE KING. 

L ate in the afternoon of October 5, 1864, a party of 
us reached the edge of Yosemite,* and, looking down 
into the valley, saw that the summer haze had been 
banished from the region by autumnal frosts and wind. 
We looked in the gulf through air as clear as a vacuum, 
discerning small objects upon valley-floor and cliff-front. 

That splendid afternoon shadow which divides the face 
of El Capitan was projected far up and across the valley, 
cutting it in halves, — one a mosaic of russets and yellows 


* Pronounced Yo-sem'i-te. 




364 


THE SIXTH READER. 


with dark pine and glimpse of white river; the otlier a 
cobalt-hlne zone, in which the familiar groves and mead¬ 
ows were suffused with shadow-tones. 

It is hard to conceive a more pointed contrast than this 
same view in October and June. Then, through a slum¬ 
berous yet transparent atmosphere, you look down upon 
emerald freshness of green, upon arrowy rush of swollen 
river, and here and there, along pearly cliffs, as from the 
clouds, tumbles white, silver dust of cataracts. The voice 
of full soft winds swells u^) over rustling leaves, and, pul¬ 
sating, throbs like the beating of far-off surf All stern sub¬ 
limity, all geological terribleness, are veiled away behind 
magic curtains of cloud-shadow and broken light. Misty 
brightness, glow of cliff and sparkle of foam, wealth of beau¬ 
tiful details, the charm of pearl and emerald, cool gulfs of 
violet shade stretching back in deep recesses of the walls, 
— these are the features which lie under the June sky. 

Now all that has gone. The shattered fronts of walls 
stand out sharp and terrible, sweeping down in broken 
crag and cliff to a valley whereon the shadow of autumnal 
death has left its solemnity. There is no longer an air 
of beauty. In this cold, naked strength, one who has 
crowded on him the geological record of mountain work, 
of granite plateau suddenly rent asunder, of the slow, im¬ 
perfect manner in which Nature has vainly striven to 
smooth her rough work, and bury the ruins with thou¬ 
sands of years’ accumulation of soil and debris. 

Already late, we hurried to descend the trail, and were 
still following it when darkness overtook us; but the ani¬ 
mals were so well acquainted with every turn, that we 
found no difficulty in continuing our way to Longhurst’s 
house, and here we camped for the night. 

* Debris (da-bre'), fragments detached from the summits and sides of 
mountains. 


AROUND YOSEMITE WALLS. 


3G5 


By night we had climbed to the top of the northern 
wall, camping at the head-waters of a small brook, named 
by emotional Mr. Hutchings, I believe, the Virgin’s Tears. 
A charming camp-ground was formed by bands of rus¬ 
set meadow wandering in vistas through a stately forest 
of dark green fir-trees unusually feathered to the base. 
Little mahogany-colored pools surrounded with sphagnum* 
lay in the meadows, offering pleasant contrast of color. 
Our camp-ground was among clumps of thick firs, which 
completely walled in the fire, and made close overhang¬ 
ing shelters for table and beds. 

The rock under us was one sheer sweep of thirty-two 
hundred feet; upon its face we could trace the lines of 
fracture and all prominent lithological changes. Directly 
beneath, outspread like a delicately tinted chart, lay the 
lovely park of Yosemite, winding in and out about the 
solid white feet of precipices which sunk into it on either 
side; its sunlit surface invaded by the shadow of the 
south wall; its spires of pine, open expanses of buff and 
drab meadow, and families of umber oaks, rising as 
background for the vivid green river-margin and flaming 
orange masses of frosted cottonwood foliage. 

Deep in front, the Bridal-Veil Brook made its way 
through the bottom of an open gorge, and plunged off the 
edge of a thousand-foot cliff, falling in white water-dust 
and drifting in pale translucent clouds OTit over the tree- 
tops of the valley. 

Directly opposite us, and forming the other gate-post 
of the valley’s entrance, rose the great mass of Cathedral 
p^oclvs, — a group quite suggestive of the Florence Duomo. 

But our grandest view was eastward, above the deep 
sheltered valley and over the tops of those terrible granite 

* Proiioiiuced sp^g'iiuiii. A kind of fragrant moss. 



walls, out upon rolling ridges of stone and wonderful 
granite domes. Nothing in the whole list of irruptive 
products, exce 2 :)t volcanoes themselves, is so wonderful as 
those domed mountains. They are of every variety of 


















































AROUND YOSEMITE WALLS. 


367 


conoidal form, having horizontal sections accurately ellip¬ 
tical, ovoid, or circular, and profiles varying from such 
semicircles as the cap behind the Sentinel to the graceful 
infinite curves of the North Dome. Above and beyond 
these, stretch back long bare ridges connecting with sunny 
summit peaks. 

The whole region is one solid granite mass, with here ■ 
and there shallow soil layers, and a thin variable forest, 
which grows in picturesque mode, defining the leading 
lines of erosion, as an artist deepens here and there a line 
to hint at some structural peculiarity. 

A complete physical exposure of the range, from sum¬ 
mit to base, lay before us. At one extreme stand sharp¬ 
ened peaks, white in fretwork of glistening ice-bank, or 
black, where tower straight bolts of snowless rock; at 
the other, stretch away plains smiling with a broad hon¬ 
est brown under autumn sunlight. They are not quite 
lovable even in distant tranquillity of hue, and just es- 
caj^e being interesting in spite of their familiar rivers and 
associated belts of oak. Nothing can ever render them 
quite charming,- for, in the startling splendor of flower- 
clad April, you are surfeited with an embarrassment of 
beauty, at all other times stunned by their poverty. Not 
so the summits ; forever new, full of individuality, rich in 
detail, and coloring themselves anew under every cloud- 
change or hue of heaven, they lay you under their spell. 

From them the eye comes back over granite waves and 
domes to the sharp precipice-edges overhanging Yosemite. 
We look down those vast, hard, granite fronts, cracked 
and splintered, scarred and stained, down over gorges 
crammed with debris or dark with files of climbing pines. 
Lower, the precipice-feet are wrapped in meadow and 
grove, and beyond, level and sunlit, lies the floor, that 


368 


THE SIXTH READER. 


smooth river-cut park, with exquisite perfection of finish. 
An excursion which Cotter and I made to the top of 
the Three Brothers proved of interest. A half-hour’s 
walk from camp, over rolling granite country, brought us 
to a ridge which jutted boldly out from the plateau to 
the edge of the Yosemite wall. Here again we were on 
the verge of a precipice, this time four thousand two hun¬ 
dred feet high. Beneath us tlie whole upper half of the 
valley was as clearly seen as the southern half had been 
from Capitan. The sinuosities of the Merced, those nar¬ 
row silvery gleams which indicate the channel of the 
Yosemite Creek, the broad expanse of meadow, and debris 
trains which had bounded down the Sentinel slope, were 
all laid out under us, though diminished by immense 
depth. 

The loftiest and most magnificent parts of the walls 
crowded in a semicircle in front of us; above them the 
domes, lifted even higher than ourselves, swej)t down to 
the precipice-edges. Directly to our left, we overlooked 
the goblet-like recess into which the Yosemite tumbles, 
and could see the white torrent leap through its granite 
lip, disappearing a thousand feet below, hidden from our 
view by projecting crags; its roar fioating up to us, now 
resounding loudly, and again dying off in faint reverbera¬ 
tions, like the sounding of the sea. 

I found it extremest pleasure to lie there alone on the 
dizzy brink, studying the fine sculpture of cliff and crag, 
and watching that slow grand growth of afternoon shadows. 
Sunset found me there, still disinclined to stir, and re¬ 
paid me by a glorious spectacle of color. At this hour 
there is, no more splendid contrast of light and shade than 
one sees upon the western gateway itself, — dark-shad¬ 
owed Ca 2 :)itan upon one side, profiled against the sunset 



THE CONQUEROR’S GRAVE. 


369 


sky, and the yellow mass of Cathedral Eocks rising oppo¬ 
site in full light, while the valley is divided equally be¬ 
tween sunshine and shade. Pine groves and oaks almost 
black in the shadow are brightened up to clear red- 
hrowns where they pass out upon the lighted plain. The 
Merced, upon its mirror-like expanse, here reflects deep 
blue from Capitan, and there the warm Cathedral gold. 




LXXXVI.—THE COXQUEEOE’S GEAYE. 

BRYANT. 

This poem, whicli appeared originally in “ Putnam’s Magazine,” is one of the most 
beautiful compositions that ever was written ; admirable in sentiment, admirable in 
expression. From such poetry we learn how much we owe to those poets whose 
genius is under the control of moral feeling; who make the imagination and the 
sense of beauty ministering servants at the altar of the highest good and the highest 
truth. 


W ITHIX this lowly grave a conqueror hes; 
And yet the monument proclaims it not, 

Xor round the sleeper’s name hath chisel wrought 
The emblems of a fame that never dies, — 

Ivy and amaranth in a graceful sheaf 
Twined with the laurel’s fair, imperial leaf. 

A simjile name alone. 

To the great world unknown, 

Is graven here, and wild-flowers rising round, 

Meek meadow-sweet and violets of the ground. 

Lean lovingly against the humble stone. 


Here, in the quiet earth, they laid apart 
Xo man of iron mould and bloody hands. 

Who sought to wreak upon the cowering lands 
The passions that consumed his restless heart; 




0 


THE SIXTH EEADER. 


But one of tender spirit and delicate frame, 
Gentlest in mien and mind 
Of gentle womankind, 

Timidly shrinking from the breath of blame; 

One in whose eyes the smile of kindness made 
Its haunt, like flowers by sunny brooks in May; 
Yet at the thought of others’ jDain, a shade 
Of sweeter sadness chased the smile away. 

hTor deem that when the hand that moulders here 
Was raised in menace, realms were chilled with fear, 
And armies mustered at the sign, as when 
Clouds rise on clouds before the rainy east, — 

Gray captains leading bands of veteran men 
And fiery youths to be the vultures’ feast. 

Not thus were waged the mighty wars that gave 
The victory to her who fills this grave; 

Alone her task was wrought; 

Alone the battle fought; 

Through that long strife her constant hope was staid 
On God alone, nor looked for other aid. 

She met the hosts of sorrow with a look 

That altered not beneath the frown they wore; 
And soon the lowering brood were tamed, and took 
Meekly her gentle rule, and frowned no more. 

Her soft hand put aside the assaults of wrath, 

And calmly broke in twain 
The fiery shafts of pain. 

And rent the nets of passion from her path. 

By that victorious hand despair was slain : 

With love she vanquished hate, and overcame 
Evil with good in her great Master’s name. 

Her glory is not of this shadowy state, 

Glory that with the fleeting season dies; 




SONG OF THE GREEKS. 


371 


But when she entered at the sapphire gate, 

What joy Avas radiant in celestial eyes ! 

How heaven s bright depths with sounding welcomes rung, 
And flowers of heaven by shining hands Avere flung ! 
And He who, long before, 

Pain, scorn, and sorroAV bore, 

The mighty Sufferer, Avith aspect sAveet, 

Smiled on the timid stranger from his seat, — 

He Avho, returning glorious from the grave. 

Dragged death, disarmed, in chains, a crouching slave. 

See, as I linger here, the sun groAvs low; 

Cool airs are murmuring that the night is near. 

O gentle sleeper, from thy grave I go 

Consoled, though sad, in hope, and yet in fear! 

Brief is the time, I know. 

The warfare scarce begun ; 

Yet all may Avin the triumphs thou hast won; 

Still flows the fount whose waters strengthened thee; 

The victors’ names are yet too few to fill 
Heaven’s mighty roll; the glorious armory 
That ministered to thee is open still. 




LXXXVII. — SONG OF THE GEEEKS. 

CAMPBELL. 

These stirring lines were written while the struggle between the Greeks and Turks 
was going on, which ended in the establishment of Greece as an independent king¬ 
dom. 

A gain to the battle, Achaians ! 

Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance; 

Our land, — the first garden of liberty’s tree, — 

Tt hath been, and shall yet be, the land of the free; 



372 


THE SIXTH REAVER. 


For the cross of our faith is replanted, 

The pale dying crescent is daunted, 

And we march that the footprints of Mahomet’s slaves 
May be washed out in blood from our forefathers’ graves. 
Their spirits are hovering o’er us. 

And the sword shall to glory restore us. 

Ah ! what though no succor advances, 

Nor Christendom’s chivalrous lances 

Are stretched in our aid 1 — Be the combat our own ! 

And we ’ll perish or conquer more proudly alone ! 

For we ’ve sworn by our country’s assaulters. 

By the virgins they’ve dragged from our altars. 

By our massacred patriots, our children in chains. 

By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins. 

That, living, we shall be victorious. 

Or that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious. 

A breath of submission we breathe not: 

The sword that we’ve drawn we will sheathe not: 

Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid. 

And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade. 

Earth may hide, waves ingulf, fire consume us; 

But they shall not to slavery doom us. 

If they rule, it shall be o’er our ashes and graves : 

But we’ve smote them already with tire on the waves. 
And new triumphs on land are before us ; 

To the charge ! — Heaven’s banner is o’er us. 

This day, — shall ye blush for its story. 

Or brighten your lives with its glory'? — 

Our women, — 0, say, shall they shriek in despair. 

Or embrace us from conquest, with wreaths in their hair 1 
Accursed may his memory blacken. 

If a coward there be who would slacken 









PARENTAL ODE TO MY INFANT SON. 


373 


Till we ’ve trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth 
Being sprung from, and named for, the godlike of earth. 

Strike home ! — and the world shall revere us 
As heroes descended from heroes. 

Old Greece lightens up with emotion ! 

Her inlands, her isles of the ocean. 

Fanes rebuilt, and fair towns shall with jubilee ring. 

And the Nine shall new hallow their Helicon’s t spring. 

Our hearths shall he kindled in gladness. 

That were cold, and extinguished in sadness; 

Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white waving arms. 
Singing joy to the brave that delivered their charms, — 

When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens 
Shall have crimsoned the beaks of our ravens ! 


LXXXVIII. — PAEENTAL ODE TO MY INFANT SON. 

HOOD. 

Thomas Hood was born in London in 1798, and died in 1845. He was destined for 
commercial pursuits, and at an early age was placed in a counting-house in his native 
city. Being of a delicate constitution, his health began to fail; and at the age of fif¬ 
teen he was sent to Dundee, in Scotland, to reside with some relatives. But his tastes 
were strongly literary; and at the age of twenty-three he embraced the profession of 
letters, and began to eaim his bread by his pen. His life was one of severe toil, and, 
Irom his delicate health and sensitive temperament, of much suffering, always sus¬ 
tained, however, with manly resolution and a cheerful spirit. He wrote much, both in 
prose and verse. His works consist, for the most part, of collected contributions to 
magazines and periodicals. His novel of “Tylney Hall” was not very successful. 
His “Whims and Oddities,” of which three volumes were published, and his “Hood’s 
Own,” are the most popular of his writings. “ Up the Rhine ” is the narrative of an 
imaginary tour in Germany by a family party. “ Whimsicalities ” is a collection of his 
contributions to the “ New Monthly Magazine,” of which he was at one time the editor. 
At the time of his death he was conducting a periodical called “Hood’s Magazine,” in 
which some of his best pieces appear. 

Hood was a man of peculiar and original genius, which manifested itself with equal 

* The Muses, nine goddesses who presided over the liberal arts. 

t A mountain in Greece> sacred to Apollo and the Muses. 



374 


THE SIXTH READER. 


power and ease in humor and pathos. He was a very accurate observ^er of life and 
manners. His wit is revealed by a boundless profusion of the quaintest, oddest, and 
most unexpected combinations ; and his humor is marked alike by richness and deli¬ 
cacy. As a punster, he stands without a rival. No one else has given so much ex¬ 
pression and character to this inferior form of wit. His serious productions are mostly 
in the form of verse, and are remarkable for sweetness and tenderness of feeling, ex¬ 
quisite fancy, and finely chosen language. A few of them, such as “The Dream of Eu¬ 
gene Aram,” “ The Song of the Shirt,” “ The Bridge of Sighs,” have great power and 
pathos. In many of his poems the sportive and serious elements are most happily 
blended. “A Retrospective Review ” is a case in point. 

a ^HOU liapjDy, Itappy elf! 

_ (But stop — first let me kiss away that tear) — 
Thou tiny image of myself! 

(My love, he’s poking peas into his ear) — 

Thou merry, laughing sprite ! 

With spirits feather light. 

Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin — 

(Good heavens ! the child is swallowing a pin !) — 


Thou little tricksy Puck ! 

With antic toys so funnily hestuck. 

Light as the singing bird that wings the air, 

(The door ! the door ! he T1 tumble down the stair !) 

Thou darling of thy sire! 

(Why, Jane, he T1 set his pinafore afire !) 

Thou imp of mirth and joy ! 

In love’s dear chain so strong and bright a link. 
Thou idol of thy parents — (stop the boy ! 

There goes my ink !) 


Thou cherub — but of earth ! 

Fit playfellow for fays by moonlight pale. 

In harmless sport and mirth, 

(The dog will bite him if he pulls his tail!) 

Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey 
From every blossom in the world that blows. 
Singing in youth’s Elysium ever sunny. 




PARENTAL ODE TO MY INFANT SON. 


375 


(Another tumble — that’s his precious nose !) 

Thy father’s pride and hope ! 

(He 11 break the mirror with that skipping-rope !) 

A\' ith pure heart newly stamped from nature’s mint, 
(Where did he learn that squint 1) 

Thou young domestic love ! 

(He ’ll have that jug olf with another shove !) 

Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest! 

(Are those torn clothes his best X) 

Little epitome of man ! 

(He ’ll climb upon the table — that’s his plan !) 
Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life, 
(He’s got a knife !) 

Thou enviable being! 

Ho storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, 
Play on, play on. 

My elfin John ! 

Toss the light ball — bestride the stick, 

(I knew so many cakes would make him sick !) 
With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down. 
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk. 

With many a lamb-like frisk, 

(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!) 

Thou pretty opening rose ! 

(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose !) 
Balmy, and breathing music like the south, 

(He really brings my heart into my mouth !) 

Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star, 

(I wish that window had an iron bar!) 

Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove — 

(I tell you what, my love, 

I cannot write, unless he’s sent above !) 


376 


THE SIXTH READER. 


LXXXIX. — LAFAYETTE’S VISIT TO AMEEICA 

IX 1825. 


JOSIAH QUINCY. 


JosiAH Quincy, Jr., was born in Boston, January 17,1802; and was graduated at Har¬ 
vard University in 1821. He lias been President of the Massachusetts Senate, Presi¬ 
dent of the Common Council of Boston, and Mayor of the city. He has written much 
in favor of social and commercial reforms. 

The following is an extract from an Address delivered in Boston, June 17, 1874, at 
an entertainment in aid of the Washington Medallion Fund. 


OETY-XIXE years ago I had the privilege, in my 



J- capacity as aid to Governor Lincoln, to stand next 
to General Lafayette when he laid the corner-stone of 
the Monument on Bunker Hill. It is impossible for per¬ 
sons of this generation to realize the enthusiasm with 
which his return was greeted; all knew that when he 
applied, in 1776, to our commissioners in Paris, for a pas¬ 
sage in the first ship they should despatch to America, 
they were obliged to answer him that they possessed not 
the means or the credit sufficient for providing a single 
vessel in all the ports of France. Then,” exclaimed the 
youthful hero, “I will provide my own.” And it is a 
literal fact, that when all America was too poor to offer 
liim so much as a passage to her shores, he left, in his 
tender youth, the bosom of a home where domestic hap¬ 
piness, wealth, and honor awaited him, to plunge in the 
blood and dust of our inauspicious struggle. 

And his reappearance, after an absence of forty years, 
was almost as if his friend George Washington had re¬ 
turned on the scene. On the 15th of June, after having, 
in four months, travelled over five thousand miles, and 
visited the country from Maine to Florida, and received 
the homage of our sixteen Eepublics, — a fact, before the 
invention of railways, almost without a parallel, — La- 


LAFAYETTEE VISIT TO AMERICA IN 1825. 377 


layette reached Boston to witness the celebration of the 
fiftieth anniversary of the battle of Bunker Hill. 

The day dawned with uncommon splendor. The State 
of Massachusetts had made an appropriation to pay the 
expenses of every soldier of the Eevolution who reported 
himself on that day; and almost every survivor of that 
venerable band, who resided in New England, had availed 
himself of her bounty. From my official relations, I wit¬ 
nessed the meeting of these veterans. They had parted 
nearly half a century before. Their subsequent lot in life, 
or even their continued existence, had been to each other 
unknown. They met and recognized one another with 
almost the. feelings of boys. The recollections of the past 
pressed upon their memories ; and the flame of life that 
had become almost dormant in their bosoms flashed out 
with its early brightness before it expired. 

Forty years before, their patriot souls had scorned the 
advice not to disband until the nation had paid for their 
services, and they left the army poor, and, from their mil¬ 
itary experiences, unfitted to prosper in the usual avoca¬ 
tions of life. The visit of Lafayette, and the recognition 
through him and with him of their services, was to them 
like the breaking out of the setting sun after a day of 
storms, revealing the beauty of the land for which they had 
suffered, and giving them the hope of a brighter to-morrow. 

The Masonic and military show of the procession had 
never been surpassed, but the great interest of the scene 
arose from the presence of the survivors of tlie army of 
the Eevolution. Of these, two hundred officers and sol¬ 
diers led the way, and forty, who had fought at Bunker 
Hill, followed in carriages. Lafayette was the only staff 
officer of that venerable band; and seven captains, three 
lieutenants, and one ensign constituted all the othei offi¬ 
cers that remained. 


378 


THE SIXTH READER. 


The first exercise of the day had a peculiar interest. 
The occasion was of course to be consecrated by prayer 
and the venerable Joseph Thaxter, chaplain of Prescott’s 
own regiment, rose to officiate. Fifty years before he had 
stood upon that spot, and in the presence of many for 
whom that morning sun should know no setting, called 
upon Him, who can save by many or by few, for his aid 
in. the approaching struggle. His presence brought the 
scene vividly to our view. 

In imagination, we could almost hear the thunder of 
the broadsides that ushered in that eventful morning. 
We could almost see Prescott and Warren and their gal¬ 
lant host pausing from their labors to listen to.an invoca¬ 
tion to Him before whom many before nightfall v^ere to 
appear. We could almost realize what thoughts must 
have filled the minds of patriots before that first deci¬ 
sive conflict. Since then, everything had changed, except 
the Being before whom we bowed. He alone is the same 
yesterday, to-day, and forever. 

The prayer was followed by a hymn, written by Mr. 
Pierpont, which, sung by the vast multitude to the tune 
of Old Hundred, produced a thrilling effect: — 

“0, is not this a holy spot ! 

’Tis the high place of freedom’s birth: — 

God of our fathers ! is it not 

The holiest spot on all the earth ? 

“Quenched is thy flame on Horeb’s side, 

The robbers roam o’er Sinai now, 

And those old men, thy seers, abide 
No more on Zion’s mournful brow. 

“ But on this .spot, thou. Lord, hast dwelt 
Since round its head the war-cloud curled. 

And wrapped our fathers, where they knelt 
In prayer and battle for a world. 



PERSONAL INFLUENCE. 


379 


“ Here sleeps their dust : ’t is holy ground, 

And we, the children of the brave. 

From the four winds have gathered round 
To lay our offering on their grave. 

“ Free as the winds that round us blow. 

Free as yon waves before us spread. 

We rear a pile, that long shall throw 
Its shadow on their sacred bed. 

“ But on their deeds no shade shall fall 

While o’er their couch thy sun shall flame. 
Thine ear was bowed to hear their call. 

And thy right hand shall guard their fame.” 


XC. — PEESOXAL INFLUENCE. 


WILLIAM R. WILLIAMS, D. D. 


William R. Williams, D. D., an American clergjnnan, was born in the city of New 
York, October 14, 1804. He was graduated at Columbia College in 1822. He studied 
law and was admitted to practice, but soon after embraced the clerical profession, 
and was settled in 1831 oyer the Baptist congregation in Amity Street, New York, 
where he has since resided. He has published “Lectures on the Lord’s Prayer,” 
“Religious Progress,” and a volume of miscellaneous addresses. 

He has a high reputation as an earnest and eloquent preacher of the gospel. 


HE world is filled with the countless and interlacinif 

O 



-L filaments of influence, which spread from individual 
to individual, over the whole face and framework of soci¬ 
ety. The infant, wailing and helpless in the arms of his 
mother, already wields an influence felt through the 
whole household, his fretfulness disturhin" or his serene 
smiles gladdening that entire home. And as, with added 
years, his faculties are expanded, and the sphere of his 
activity widens itself, his influence increases. Every 
man whom he meets, much more whom he moulds and 
governs, becomes tlie more happy or the more wretched, 
the better or the worse, according to the character of liis 
spirit and example. 




380 


THE SIXTH READER. 


Nor can he strip from himself this influence. If he 
flee away from the society of his fellows to dwell alone 
in the wilderness, he leaves behind him the example of 
neglected duty, and the memory of disregarded love, to 
afflict the family he has abandoned. Even in the path¬ 
less desert, he finds his own feet caught in the torn and 
entangled web of influence that bound him to society; 
and its cords remain wherever he was once known, send¬ 
ing home to the hearts that twined around him sorrow 
and pain. Nor can the possessor of it expect it to go 
down into the grave with him. The sepulchre may have 
closed in silence over him, and his name may have per¬ 
ished from among men; yet his influence, nameless as it 

is, and untraceable by human eye, is floating over the 
face of society. 

No man leaves the world in all things such as he found 

it. The habits which he was instrumental in forming 
may go on from century to century, an heirloom for good 
or for evil, doing their work of misery or of happiness, 
blasting or blessing the country that has now lost all 
record of his memory. In the case of some, this influ¬ 
ence is most sensible. 

Every age beholds and owns their power. And thus 
it is, that, although centuries have rolled their inter¬ 
vening tide between the age of their birth and our 
own, and the empires under which they flourished have 
long since mouldered away from the soil whence they 
sprung, and the material frame of the author himself 
has been trampled down into undistinguishable dust, the 
writers of classical antiquity are still living and laboring 
among us. The glorious dreams of Plato still float be¬ 
fore the eye of the metaphysician, and the genius of 
Homer tinges with its own light the whole firmament- of 
modern invention. 


FJ£ESONAL INFLUENCE. 


381 




Nor, unhappily, is this all. Corruption is yet oozing 
out, in lessons of profligacy and atheism, from the pages 
of an Ovid and a Lucretius, and, as if from their graves, 
streams forth the undecaying rankness of vice and false¬ 
hood, although the dominion of the world has long since 
passed from the halls of their Caesars, and the very lan¬ 
guage they employed has died away from the lips of 
man. 

The Church yet feels, throughout all lands, the influ¬ 
ence of the thoughts that passed, in the solitude of mid¬ 
night, through the bosom of Paul, as he sat in the shad¬ 
ows of his prison, a lone, unbefriended man, — thoughts 
which, lifting his manacled hand, he spread in his epistles 
before the eyes of men, there to remain forever. It feels 
yet the effect of the pious meditations of David, when 
rhtwning on the hillside a humble shepherd lad, of the 
family piety of Abraham, and of the religious nurture that 
trained up the infancy of Moses. Every nation is affected 
at this moment by the moral power that emanated from 
the despised Noah, as that preacher of righteousness sat 
among his family, perhaps dejected and faint from un¬ 
successful toil, teaching them to call upon God when all 
the families of the earth beside had forgotten him. 


And if the mind, taking its flight from the narrow pre¬ 
cincts of these walls, were to wander abroad along the 
peopled highways and to the farthest hamlets of our own 
land, and, passing the seas to traverse distant realms and 
barbarous coasts, every man whom its travels met, nay, 
every being of human mould that has ever trodden this 
earth in earlier ages, or is now to be found among its 
moving myriads, has felt or is feeling the influence of the 
thoughts of a solitary woman, who, centuries ago, stood 
debating the claims of conscience and of sin, amid the 
verdant glories of the yet unforfeited Paradise. 


382 


THE SIXTH EEADEE. 


XCL —SPEECH OH THE AMEPJCAH WAE. 


CHATHAM. 


William Pitt, Earl of Chatham, was born in Boconnoc, in the county of Cornwall, 
England, November 15, 1708 ; and died at Hayes, in Kent, May 11, 1778. He entered 
the House of Commons in 1735, became Secretary of State, and substantially Prime 
Minister, in December, 175G; and continued to hold this office, with a brief interval, 
till October, 1761. In 1766 he received the office of Lord Privy Seal, and was elevated 
to the peerage with the title of Earl of Chatham. He resigned the Privy Seal in 1768, 
and subsequently took a leading part in many popular questions. 

Chatham’s name is one of the most illustrious in English history. Dr. Franklin 
said that in the course of his life he had sometimes seen eloquence without wisdom, 
and often wisdom without eloquence ; in Lord Chatham alone had he seen both 
united. His eloquence, vivid, 'impetuous, and daring, was aided by uncommon iier- 
sonal advantages, — a commanding presence, an eye of fire, and a voice of equal sweet¬ 
ness and iiower. His character was lofty, his private life was spotless, and his 
motives high. His temper was somewhat wayward, and he was impatient of oppo¬ 
sition or contradiction. His memory is cherished with peculiar reverence in our 
country, because of his earnest and consistent support of the rights of the Colonies 
against the measures of Lord North’s administration. 

The following speech was delivered in the House of Lords, November 18, 1777. 
The king had oiiened the session of Parliament with a speech from the throne, recom¬ 
mending a further and more energetic prosecution of the war to reduce the American 
Colonies to submission. To the address in rejily to this speech, and simply echoing 
its sentiments, Chatham offered an amendment, proposing an immediate cessation of 
hostilities, and adequate measures of conciliation. The birth of the Princess Sophia, 
one of the daughters of George III., had recently taken place, and was alluded to, in 
the address. 



EISE, my lords, to declare my sentiments on this 


-L most solemn and serious subject. It has imposed a 
load upon my mind, which, I fear, nothing can remove, 
but which impels me to endeavor its alleviation, by a 
free and unreserved communication of my sentiments. 

In the first part of the address I have the honor of 
lieartily concurring with the noble earl who moved it. 
No man feels sincerer joy than I do ; none can offer more 
genuine congratulations on every accession of strength 
to the Protestant succession. I therefore join in every 
congratulation on tlie birth of another princess, and the 
happy recovery of her Majesty. 

But I must stop here. My courtly complaisance will 







SPEECH ON THE AMEPJGAN WAR. 383 

carry me no further. I will not join in congratulation 
on misfortune and disgrace. I cannot concur in a blind 
and servile address, which approves and endeavors to 
sanctify the monstrous measures which have heaped dis¬ 
grace and misfortune upon us. This, my lords, is a 
perilous and tremendous moment! It is not a time for 
adulation. The smoothness of flattery cannot now avail, 

— cannot save us in this rugged and awful crisis. It is 
now necessary to instruct the Throne in the language 
of truth. We must dispel the illusion and the darkness 
which envelop it, and display in its full danger and true 
colors the ruin that is brought to our doors. 

This, my lords, is our duty. It is the proper function 
of this noble assembly, sitting, as we do, upon our honors 
in this house, the hereditary council of the Crown. ^Vho 
is the minister, where is the minister, that has dared 
to suggest to the Throne the contrary, unconstitutional 
language this day delivered from it ? The accustomed 
language from the Throne has been application to Parlia¬ 
ment for advice, and a reliance on its constitutional ad¬ 
vice and assistance. As it is the right of Parliament to 
give, so it is the duty of the Crown to ask it. But on 
this day, and in this extreme momentous exigency, no 
reliance is reposed on our constitutional counsels! no 
advice is asked from the sober and enlightened care of 
Parliament! But the Crown, from itself and by itself, 
declares an unalterable determination to pursue measures, 

— and what measures, my lords ? The measures that 
have produced the imminent perils that threaten us, 
the measures that have brought ruin to our doors. 

Can the minister of the day now presume to expect a 
continuance of support in this ruinous infatuation ? Can 
Parliament be so dead to its dignity and its duty as to 


384 


THE SIXTH READER. 


be thus deluded into the loss of the one and the violation 
of the other ? To give an unlimited credit and support 
for the steady perseverance in measures not proposed 
for our Parliamentary advice, but dictated and forced 
upon us, — in measures, I say, my lords, which have 
reduced this late flourishing Empire to ruin and con¬ 
tempt ? But yesterday, and England might have stood 
against the world; now none so poor to do her rever¬ 
ence.” I use the words of a poet; but, though it be 
poetry, it is no fiction. It is a shameful truth that not 
only tlie power and strength of this country are wasting 
away and expiring, but her well-earned glories, her true 
honor, and substantial dignity are sacrificed. 

Erance, my lords, has insulted you; she has encour¬ 
aged and sustained America; and, whether America be 
wrong or right, the dignity of this country ought to spurn 
at the officious insult of French interference. The min¬ 
isters and ambassadors of those who are called rebels and 
enemies are in Paris; in Paris they transact the recip¬ 
rocal interests of America and France. Can there be a 
more mortifying insult ? Can even our ministers sustain 
a more humiliating disgrace ? Do they dare to resent 
it ? Do they presume even to hint a vindication of their 
honor, and the dignity of the state, by requiring the dis¬ 
mission of the plenipotentiaries of America ? Such is 
the degradation to which they have reduced the glories of 
England! 

The people whom they affect to call contemptible 
rebels, but whose growing power has at last obtained 
the name of enemies; the people with whom they have 
engaged this country in war, and against whom they now 
command our implicit support in every measure of des¬ 
perate hostility, — this people, despised as rebels, or ac- 



SPEECH ON THE AMERICAN WAR. 


385 


kiiowleclg6d as enemies, are abetted against yon, supplied 
with every military store, their interests consulted, and 
their ambassadors entertained, by your inveterate enemy, 
and our ministers dare not interpose with dignity or 
effect! Is this the honor of a great kingdom ? Is this 
the indignant spirit of England, who “but yesterday” 
gave law to the house of Bourbon ? My lords, the dig¬ 
nity of nations demands a decisive conduct in a situation 
like this. 

My lords, this ruinous and ignominious situation, 
where we cannot act with success, nor suffer with honor, 
calls upon us to remonstrate in the strongest and loudest 
language of truth, to rescue the ear of majesty from the 
delusions which surround it. The desperate state of our 
arms abroad is in part known. I love and honor the 
English troops. No man thinks more highly of them 
than I do. I know their virtues and their valor. I 
know they can achieve anything except impossibilities; 
and I know that the conquest of English America is an 
impossibility. 

You cannot, I venture to say, you cannot conquer 
America. Your armies in the last war effected every¬ 
thing that could be effected; and what was it ? It cost 
a numerous army, under the command of a most able 
general (Lord Amherst), now a noble lord in this house, 
a long and laborious campaign to expel five thousand 
Frenchmen from French America. My lords, you cannot 
conquer America. What is your present situation there ? 
We do not know the worst; but we know that in three 
campaigns we have done nothing and suffered much. 
Besides the sufferings, perhaps total loss, of the Northern 
force, the best appointed army that ever took the field, 
commanded by Sir William Howe, has retired from the 


386 


THE SIXTH READER. 


American lines. He was obliged to relinquish his at¬ 
tempt, and with great delay and danger to adopt a new 
and distinct plan of operations. We shall soon know, 
and in any event have reason to lament, what may have 
happened since. As to conquest, therefore, my lords, I 
repeat, it is impossible. 

You may swell every expense and every effort still 
more extravagantly, pile and accumulate every assist¬ 
ance you can buy or borrow, traffic and barter Avith 
every little pitiful German prince that sells and sends his 
subjects to the shambles of a foreign despot, your efforts 
are forever vain and impotent, — doubly so from this 
mercenary aid on which you rely; for it irritates, to an 
incurable resentment, the minds of your enemies, to over¬ 
run them with the mercenary sons of rapine and plunder, 
devoting them and their possessions to the rapacity of 
hireling cruelty ! If I were an American, as I am an 
Englishman, while a foreign troop was landed in my 
country, I never would lay down my arms, — never, — 
never, — never. 

■ »o» — ■ 

XCIL —ALPINE SCENEEY. 

BYRON. 

A bove me are the Alps, 

Tlie palaces of Nature, whose vast walls 

Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, 

And throned Eternity in icy halls 

Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls 

The avalanche, — the thunderbolt of snow ! 

All that expands the spirit, yet appalls. 

Gather around these summits, as to show 

' •• 

Hoav earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below. 




ALPINE SCENERY. 


387 


Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake 

With the wide world I ’ve dwelt in is a thing 
Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake 
Earths troubled waters-for a purer spring. 

This quiet sail is as a noiseless win" 

To waft me from distraction : once I loved 
Torn ocean s roar j hut thy soft murmuring 
Sounds sweet as if a sister’s voice reproved 

dhat I with stern delights should e’er have been so moved. 

• 

It is the hush of night; and all between 

Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear. 
Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen. 

Save darkened Jura, whose capped heights appear 
Precipitously steep ; and drawing near, 

There breathes a living fragrance from the shore. 

Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear 
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar. 

Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more. 

He is an evening reveller, who makes 
His life an infancy, and sings his fill; 

At intervals, some bird from out the brakes 
Starts into voice a moment, then is still. 

There seems a floating whisper on the hill; 

Put that is fancy : for the starlight dews 
All silently their tears of love distil,^ 

Weeping themselves away till they infuse 
Deep into Nature’s breast the spirit of her hues. 

Ye stars ! which are the poetry of heaven. 

If, in your bright leaves, we would read the fate 
Of men and empires, — ’t is to be forgiven. 

That, in our aspirations to be great. 

Our destinies o’erleap their mortal state. 


388 


TEE SIXTH READER. 


And claim a kindred with you; for ye are 
A beauty and a mystery, and create 
In us such love and reverence from afar, 

That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star. 

The sky is changed ! and such a change ! 0 Night 

And Storm and Darkness, ye are wondrous strong, 

Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light 
Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along. 

From peak to peak, the rattling crags among. 

Leaps the live thunder ! — not from one lone cloud. 

But every mountain now hath found a tongue; 

And Jura answers, through her misty shroud. 

Back to the joyous Alps who call to her aloud ! 

And this is in the night: — Most glorious night, 

Thou wert not sent for slumber; let me be 
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — 

A portion of the tempest and of thee ! 

How the lit lake shines, — a phosphoric sea, — 

And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! 

And now again’t is black ; and now the glee 
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain mirth. 

As if they did rejoice o’er a young earthquake’s birth. 

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye. 

With night and clouds and thunder, and a soul 
To make these felt and feeling, well may he 

Things that have made me watchful: — the far roll 
Of your departing voices is the knell 
Of what in me is sleepless, — if I rest. 

But where, of ye, 0 tempests ! is the goal 1 
Are ye like those within the human breast ? 

Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest 1 


TEE OLD WORLD AND THE NEW. 


389 


The morn is up again, the dewy morn, 

With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom. 
Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn. 

And living as if earth contained no tomb, — 

And glowing into day : we may resume 
The march of our existence ; and thus I, 

Still on thy shores, fair Leman, may find room. 
And food for meditation, nor pass by 
Much that may give us pause, if pondered fittingly. 




XCIII —THE OLD WOELD AND THE NEW. 

HORACE GREELEY. 

Horace Greeley was born in Amherst, New Hampshire, in 1811. Obliged by 
his father’s poverty to rely on his own resources, he began at the age of fifteen to 
learn the art of printing. After four years in a newsijaper office in Vermont, he 
sought employment in the city of New York, where he arrived in August, 1831. It 
was with difficulty that he obtained work ; for the personal appearance and manners 
of the poor boy were not particularly attractive, and he was entirely without friends 
in the metropolis. 

• But his indomitable energy and industry overcame all obstacles. Successively he 
published “The Morning Post,” “The New-Yorker,” “The Jeffersonian,” “The Log- 
Cabin,” and “ The New York Tribune,” and finally became recognized as the foremost 
of American journalists. The influence which he exerted, first as a Whig, and after¬ 
wards as a Republican, was great. A self-made man, his sympathy with the toiling 
masses was intense. His great theme, though stated with a hundred varying titles, 
was the emancipation of labor and the elevation of the laboring man. 

In 1872 he was the candidate of the Liberal Republicans and Democrats for the 
Presidency of the United States. His campaign speeches, which were very numerous, 
were characterized bj’ extraordinary scope, vigor, and fertility of thought. He sur¬ 
vived his defeat but a few weeks. 

Among his published works are “Hints toward Reforms,” “Recollections of a 
Busy Life,” “Glances at Europe,” and “The American Conflict.” The chief char¬ 
acteristics of his style are cleaniess, conciseness, and a fiery energy. The following 
extract, showing that he was not lacking in grace or tenderness of sentiment, forms the 
closing pages of his “Glances at Europe.” 

B ut I must not linger. The order to embark is 
given ; our good ship Baltic is ready ; another hour 
and I shall have left England and this Continent, proba- 




I 


i 


390 THE SIXTH READER 

bly forever. With a fervent good-by to the friends I 
leave on this side of the Atlantic, I turn my steps gladly 
and proudly toward my own loved western home,— 
toward the land wherein man enjoys larger opportunities 
than elsewhere to develop the better and the worse 
aspects of his nature, and where evil and good have a 
freer course, a wider arena for their inevitable struggles, 
than is allowed them among the heavy fetters and cast- 
iron forms of this rigid and wrinkled Old World. 

Doubtless, those struggles will long be arduous and 
trying; doubtless, the dictates of duty will there often 
bear sternly away from the halcyon bowers of popularity; 
doubtless, he who would be singly and wholly right must 
there encounter ordeals as severe as those which here try 
the souls of the would-be champions of progress and 
liberty. But political freedom, such as white men enjoy 
in the United States, and the mass do not enjoy in 
Europe, not even in Britain, is a basis for confident and 
w^ell-grounded hope; tlie running stream, though turbid, 
tends ever to self-purification ; the obstructed, stagnant 
pool grows daily more dank and loathsome. 

Believing most firmly in the ultimate and perfect tri¬ 
umph of good over evil, I rejoice in the existence and 
diffusion of that liberty which, while it intensifies the 
contest, accelerates the consummation. Neither blind to 
her errors, nor a pander to her vices, I rejoice to feel 
that every hour henceforth, till I see her shores, must 
lessen the distance which divides me from my country, 
whose advantages and blessings this four months’ absence 
has taught me to appreciate more clearly and to prize 
more deeply than before. 

With a glow of unwonted rapture I see our stately 
vessel’s prow turned toward the setting sun, and strive 



THE HERITAGE. 


391 


to realize that only some ten days separate me from 
those I know ano love best on earth. Hark! the last 
gun announces that the mail-boat has left us, and that 
we are fairly afloat on our ocean journey; the shores 
of Europe recede from our vision; the watery waste is 
all around us; and now, with God above and death be¬ 
low, our gallant bark and her clustered company together 
brave the dangers' of the mighty deep. May infinite 
mercy watch over our onward path and bring us safely 
to our several homes; for to die away from home and 
kindred seems one of the saddest calamities that could 
befall me. 

This mortal tenement would rest uneasily in an ocean 
shroud; this spirit reluctantly resign that tenement to the 
chill and pitiless brine; these eyes close regretfully on the 
stranger skies and bleak inhospitality of the sullen and 
stormy main. No ! let me see once more the scenes so 
well remembered and beloved; let me grasp, if but once 
again, the hand of friendship and hear the thrilling ac¬ 
cents of proved affection, and when, sooner or later, the 
hour of mortal agony shall come, let my last gaze be fixed 
on eyes that will not forget me when I am gone, and let 
my ashes repose in that congenial soil which, however 
I may there be esteemed or hated, is still 

“My own green land forever!” 

-K>«- 

XCIV. —THE HERITAGE. 

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

T he rich man’s son inherits lands, 

And piles of brick and stone and gold; 

And he inherits soft, white hands, 




392 


THE SIXTH READER. ’ 


And tender flesh that fears the cold, 

Nor dares to wear a garment old j — 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

One would not care to hold in fee. 

The rich man’s son inherits cares : 

The bank may break, the factory burn; 
Some breath may hurst his bubble shares; 
And soft, white hands would hardly earn 
A living that would suit his turn; — 

A heritage, it seems to me. 

One would not care to hold in fee. 

The rich man’s son inherits .wants : 

His stomach craves for dainty fare; 

With sated heart he hears the pants 
Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare. 
And wearies in his easy-chair; — 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

One would not care to hold in fee. 

What does the poor man’s son inherit ? 

Stout muscles and a sinewy heart j 
A hardy frame, a hardier spirit; 

King of two hands, he does his part 
In every useful toil and art; — 

A heritage, it seems to me,^ 

A king might wish to hold in fee. 

What does the poor man’s son inherit h 
Wishes o’erjoyed with humble things ; 

A rank adjudged by toil-worn merit; 
Content that from employment springs; 

A heart that in his labor sings j — 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

A king might wish to hold in fee. 


THE HERITAGE. 


393 


W hat does the poor man’s son inherit h 
A patience learned by being poor; 
Courage, if sorrow conies, to bear it; 

A fellow-feeling that is sure 
To make the outcast bless his door j — 
A heritage, it seems to me, 

A king might wish to hold in fee. 

0 rich man’s son ! there is a toil 
That with all other level stands; 

Large charity doth never soil. 

But only whitens, soft, white hands; 
That is the best crop from the lands; — 
A heritage, it seems to me. 

Worth being rich to hold in fee. 

0 poor man’s son, scorn not thy state ! 

There is worse weariness than thine, 

In merely being rich and great; 

Work only makes the soul to shine. 

And makes rest fragrant and benign; — 
A heritage, it seems to me. 

Worth being poor to hold in fee. 

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod. 

Are equal in the earth at last; 

Both children of the same dear God ; 

Prove title to your heirship vast. 

By record of a well-filled past; — 

A heritage, it seems to me. 

Well worth a life to hold in fee. 


394 


THE SIXTH READER. 


XCV. —JENNY LIND’S GREETINGS TO 

AMERICA. 

BAYARD TAYLOR. 

Bayard Taylor was born in Chester County, Pennsylvania, in 1825. At the age 
of twenty-one he suddenly became well known by his published record of a tour 
through Europe, entitled “Views Afoot; or, Europe seen with Knapsack and Staff.” 
In 1849 he became one of the editors of the “ New York Tribune,” to which he con¬ 
tributed a series of letters descriptive of his exi>erience in Europe. “ El Dorado ; or, 
Adventures in the Patii of Empire,” i)ublished in 1850, an interesting account of his 
travels in the far west and i)articulai-ly in California, added to Itis reputation. With 
a love of adventure not inferior to that of Sir John Mandeville or Marco Polo, and 
with a vision as acute as Livingstone’s, he journeyed for several years in Europe, 
Africa, Syria, China, and Japan, and then, with a grace of style not surpassed by 
that of any other famous traveller, he gave to the world the results of his observa¬ 
tions in his “Journey to Central Africa,” “Visit to India, China, Loo Choo,” etc., 
“Land of the Saracens,” “Summer and Winter Pictures of Sweden, Denmark, and 
Lapland,” “Travels in Greece and Russia,” “At Home and Abroad,” etc. He is 
a graceful poet as well as prose writer, having published “ Book of Romances, Lyrics, 
and Songs,” “ Poems of the Orient,” “ Poems of Home and Travel,” and many fugi¬ 
tive pieces that have enriched the columns of the “Atlantic Monthly” and other 
magazines. His greatest poetical production is his translation of Goethe’s “ Faust,” 
in which the original metres are often imitated with exquisite skill. 

I GREET with a full heart the land of the west, 

Whose banner of stars o’er the earth is unrolled, 

Whose empire o’ershadows Atlantic’s wdde breast, 

And opes to the sunset its gateway of gold; 

The land of the mountain, the land of the lake, 

And rivers that roll in magnificent tide. 

Where the souls of the mighty from slumber awake 
To hallow the soil for whose freedom they died. 

Thou cradle of empire, though wdde be the foam 
That severs the land of my fathers from thee, 

I hear from thy children the welcome of home. 

For song has a home in the hearts of the free; 

And long as thy waters shall gleam in the sun. 

And long as thy heroes remember their scars, 

Be the hands of thy children united as one. 

And may peace shed her light on thy banner of sta,rs! 


HYMN OF PRAISE BY ADAM AND EVE. 395 


XCVI. —HYMN or PRAISE BY ADAM AND 

EVE. 


MILTON. 


John Milton was born in London, December 9, 1608 ; and died November 8, 1674. 
His is one of the greatest names in all literature; and of course it would be impossi¬ 
ble in the compass of a brief notice like this to point out, except iu the most cursory 
manner, the elements of his intellectual supremacy. His “Comus,” “Lycidas,” 
L Allegro, “ II Penseroso,” and “ Arcades ” were written before he was thirty years 
old ; “ Paradise Lost,” “ Paradise Regained,” and “ Samson Agonistes ” were all pub¬ 
lished after his fifty-ninth year, and many years after he had been totally blind. His 
prose works were the growth of the intermediate period. 


Milton’s early poetry is full of morning freshness and the spirit of unworn youth; 
the “Paradise Lost” is characterized by the highest sublimity, the most various 
learning, and the noblest pictures; and the “Paradise Regained” and “Samson 
Agonistes ” have a serene and solemn grandeur, depeening in the latter into auster¬ 
ity ; while all are marked by imaginative power, purity, and elevation of tone, and 
the finest harmony of verse. 

His jjrose works, which are partly in Latin and partly in English, were for the most 
part called forth by the ecclesiastical and political controversies of the stormy period 
in which he lived. They are vigorous and eloquent in style, and abound in passages 
of the highest beauty and loftiest tone of sentiment. 

Milton’s character is hardly less worthy of admiration than his genius. Spotless in 
morals; simple in his tastes; of ardent piety ; bearing with cheerfulness the burdens 
of blindness, poverty, and neglect; bending his genius to the humblest duties, — he 
I'resents an exalted model of excellence, in which Ave can find nothing to qualify our 
reverence, except a certain severity of temper, and perhaps a somewhat impatient and 
intolerant spirit. 

The following passage is from the fifth book of “ Paradise Lost.” 


T hese are thy glorious works, Parent of good, 
Almighty ! Thine this universal frame. 

Thus wondrous fair ! Thyself how wondrous then. 
Unspeakable ! who sittest above these heavens, 

To us invisible, or dimly seen 
In these thy lowest works ; yet these declare 
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine. 
Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light, 
Angels; for ye behold him, and with songs 
And choral symphonies, day without night, 

Circle his throne rejoicing; ye in heaven. 

On earth join all ye creatures to extol 


396 


THE SIXTH READER. 


Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. 

Fairest of stars, last in the train of night, 

If better thou belong not to the dawn. 

Sure pledge of day, that crownest the smiling morn 
With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere, 

AVhile day arises, that sweet hour of prime. 

Thou sun, of this great world both eye and soul, 
Acknowledge him thy greater; sound his praise 
In thy eternal course, both when thou climbest. 

And when high noon hast gained; and when thou fullest. 
Ye mists and exhalations, that now rise 
From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray, 

Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold. 

In honor to the world’s great Author rise; 

AYhether to deck with clouds the uncolored sky. 

Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers, 

Eising or falling, still advance his praise. 

His praise, ye winds that from four quarters blow. 

Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye pines, 

With every plant, in sign of worship wave. 

Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow, 

IMelodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. 

Join voices, all ye living souls; ye birds. 

That singing up to heaven’s gate ascend. 

Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise. 

Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk 
The earth and stately tread or lowly creep ; 

Witness if I be silent, morn or even, ■ 

To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade. 

Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise. 

Hail, universal Lord, be bounteous still 
To give us only good ; and if the night 
Have gathered aught of evil or concealed. 

Disperse it, as more light dispels the dark. 


UNION AND LIBERTY, 


397 


XCVIL —UNION AND LIBEETY. 

O. W. HOLMES. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes, M. I)., was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, August 
29, 1809; was graduated at Harvard College in 1829, and commenced the practice of 
medicine in Boston in 1836. He has been for many years one of the professors in the 
medical department of Harvard College, and he is understood to be highly skilful 
both in the theory and practice of his profession. He began to write poetry at quite 
an early age. His longest productions are occasional poems which have been recited 
before litei'ary societies, and received with very great favor. His style is brilliant, 
sparkling, and terse; and many of his heroic stanzas remind us of the point and 
condensation of Pope. In his shorter poems he is sometimes grave, and sometimes 
gay. When in the former mood, he charms us by his truth and manliness of feeling, 
and his sweetness of sentiment; when in the latter, he delights us with the glance 
and play of the wildest wit and the richest humor. Everything that he Avrites is 
carefully finished, and rests on a basis of sound sense and shrewd observation. Dr. 
Holmes also enjoys high reputation and wide popularity as a prose writer. He is the 
author of “The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table,” “The Professor at the Breakfast- 
Table,” and “Elsie Venner,” Avorks of fiction which originally appeared in the “At¬ 
lantic Monthly Magazine,” and of various occasional discourses. 

F lag of the heroes wlio left iis their glory, 

Borne through our battle-field’s thunder and flame. 
Blazoned in song and illumined in story, 

Wave o’er us all who inherit their fame ! 

Up with our banner bright. 

Sprinkled with starry light, 
c Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore; 

While through the sounding sky. 

Loud rings the nation’s cry, — 

Union and Liberty ! — one evermore ! 

Light of our firmament, guide of our nation. 

Pride of her children, and honored afar. 

Let the wdde beams of thy full constellation 
Scatter each cloud that would darken a star! 

Empire unsceptred ! what foe shall assail thee. 

Bearing the standard of Liberty’s van ] 

Tliink not the God of thy fathers shall fail thee. 

Striving with men for the birthright of man ! 




398 


THE SIXTH READER. 


Yet, if by madness and treachery blighted, 

Dawns the dark hour when the sword thou must dra^vv, 

Then, Muth the arms of thy millions united. 

Smite the bold traitors to Freedom and Law! 

Lord of the Universe ! shield us and guide us. 

Trusting thee always, through shadow and sun ! 

Thou hast united us, who. shall divide us 1 
Keep us, 0 keep us, the Many in One! 

Up with our banner bright. 

Sprinkled with starry light. 

Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore; 
While through the sounding sky. 

Loud rings the nation’s cry, — 

Union and Liberty ! — one evermore ! 


XCYIII. —JAMES OTIS. 


SUMNER. 


The following is an extract from a speech by Charles Sumner, deliA’^ered in the Sen¬ 
ate, February 2,1S66, on a joint resolution carrying out the guaranty of a republican 
form of government. 


HE cause of human liberty, in this great controver- 



-L sy, found a voice in James Otis, a young lawyer of 
eloquence, learning, and courage, whose early words, like 
the notes of the morning bugle mingling with the dawn, 
awakened the whole country. Asked by the merchants 
of Boston to speak at the bar against writs of assistance, 
issued to enforce ancient acts of Parliament, he spoke 
both as lawyer and as patriot, and so doing became a 
statesman. His speech was the most important, down to 
that occasion, ever made on this side of the ocean. 




•JAMES OTIS. 


399 


An earnest contemporary who was present says, “ No 
harangue of Demosthenes or Cicero ever had such effect 
upon the globe as that speech.” It was the harbinger of 
a new era. ^ For five hours the brilliant orator unfolded 
the character of these acts of Parliament; for five hours 
lie held the court-room in rapt and astonished admiration; 
but his efibrt ascended into statesmanship when, after 
showing that the colonists Avere without representation in 
Parliament, he cried out, that, notwithstanding this exclu¬ 
sion, Pailiament had undertaken to “ impose taxes, and 
enormous taxes, burdensome taxes, oppressive, ruinous, 
intolerable taxes ”; and then, glowing with generous in¬ 
dignation at this injustice, he launched that thunderbolt 
of political truth, “ Taxation without representation is 
Tyranny.” From the narrow court-room where he spoke, 
the thunderbolt passed, smiting and blasting the intoler¬ 
able pretension. It was the idea of John Locke; but the 
fervid orator, with tongue of flame, gave to it the intensity 
of his own genius. He found it in a book of philosophy; 
but he sent it forth a winged messenger blazing in the sky. 

John Adams, then a young man just admitted to the 
bar, was present at the scene, and he dwells on it often 
with sympathetic delight. There in the old Town House 
of Boston sat the five judges of the Province, with Hutch¬ 
inson as chief justice, in robes of scarlet, cambric bands, 
and judicial wigs; and there, too, in gowns, bands, and 
tie-Avigs, were the barristers. Conspicuous on the wall 
Avere full-length portraits of two British monarchs, Charles 
II. and James IL, Avhile in the corners Avere the likenesses 
of Massachusetts governors. In this presence the great 
oration was delivered. The patriot lawyer had refused 
compen.sation. “ In such a cause as this,” said he, I 
despise a fee.” He spoke for country and for mankind. 


400 


THE SIXTH BEADEE. 


Firmly lie planted himself on the rights of man, which, 
he insisted, w’ere by the everlasting law of nature inherent 
and inalienable ; and tliese rights, he nobly proclaimed, 
were common to all without distinction of color. To sup¬ 
pose them surrendered in any other way than by equal 
rules and general eonsent, was to suppose men idiots or 
mad, whose acts are not binding. 

But he especially flew at two arguments of tyranny : 
first, that the colonists were virtually ” represented ; and, 
secondly, that there was such a diflerence between direct 
and indirect taxation, that while the former might be 
questionable, the latter was not. To these two apologies 
he replied, first, that no such phrase as ‘‘ virtual represen¬ 
tation ” was known in law or constitution; that it is 
altogether subtlety and illusion, wholly unfounded and 
absurd; and that we must not be cheated by any such 
phantom, or other fiction of law or politics : and then, with 
. the same crushing force, he said that in the absence of 
representation all taxation, whether direct or indirect, 
whether internal or external, whether on land or trade, was 
equally obnoxious to the same unhesitating condemnation. 

The effect was electric. The judges were stunned into 
silence, and postponed judgment. The people were 
aroused to a frenzy of patriotism. “ American Indepen¬ 
dence,” says John Adams, in the record of his impressions, 
was then and there born; the seeds of patriots and 
heroes were then and there sown, to defend the vigorous 
youth. Every man of a crowded audience appeared to 
me to go away, as I did, ready to take arms against' writs 
of assistance. Then and there was the first scene of the 
first act of opposition to the arbitrary claims of Great 
Britain. Then and there tlie child Independence was 
born.” 


THE PAUPER’S DEATH-BED. 


401 


XCIX. —THE PAUPEE’S DEATH-BED. 

C. B. SOUTHEY. 

Caroline Ann Bowles, who became, June 4,1839, the second wife of Robert Southey, 
was born at Lymington, England, December 6, 1786; and died July 20, 1854. She is 
the author of “Chapters on Churchyards,” “Ellen Fitz Arthur,” and other works. 
She is best known by her poetry, which is remarkable for tenderness and depth of 
feeling. 

T read softly, — bow the head 
In reverent silence low ; 

No passing bell doth toll, 

Yet an immortal soul 
Is passing now. 

Stranger, however great. 

With lowly reverence bow; 

There is one in that poor shed, 

One by that paltry bed, 

Greater than thou. 

Beneath that beggar’s roof, 

Lo ! Death doth keep his state ; 

Enter, — no crowds attend ; 

Enter, — no guards defend 
This palace gate. 

That pavement, damp and cold. 

No smiling courtiers tread ; 

One silent woman stands. 

Lifting with meagre hands 
A dying head. 

No mingling voices sound, — 

An infant wail alone ; 

A sob suppressed, — again 
That short, deep gasp, and then 
The parting groan. 


402 


THE SIXTH READER. 


0 change ! 0 wondrous change ! 
Burst are the prison bars; 

This moment there, so low, 

So agonized, and now 
Beyond the stars ! 

0 change ! stupendous change ! 
There lies the soulless clod ! 

The sun eternal breaks, — 

The new-born immortal wakes, — 
Wakes with his God ! 




C. —SPARTACUS TO THE GLADIATORS. 

KELLOGG. 

Elijah Kellogg was born in Portland, Maine, and was graduated at Bowdoin Col¬ 
lege in 1S40. In 1S44 he was ordained over the Congregational Society of Harpswell. 
In 1855 he removed to Boston, and became pastor of the Mariners’ Church, under the 
patronage of the Boston Seamen’s Friend Society. He has since continued to leside 
there. 

The following is a supposed speech of Spartacus, who was a real personage. He was 
a Thracian by birth, and a gladiator, who headed a rebellion of gladiators and slaves 
against the Romans, which was not suppressed until after a long struggle, in which 
he showed great energy and ability. A praetor was a Roman magistrate. The vestal 
A’irgins were priestesses of Vesta. They had a conspicuous place at the gladiatorial 
shows. The ancients attached great importance to the rites of sepulture, and believed 
that, if the body were not buried, the soul could not cross the Styx, and reach the 
Elysian Fields, the abode of the departed spirits of the good. 

I T had been a day of triumph in Capua. Lentulus, 
returning with victorious eagles, had amused the pop¬ 
ulace with the sports of the amphitheatre to an extent 
hitherto unknown even in tliat luxurious city. The 
shouts of revelry had died away ; the roar of the lion had 
ceased ; the last loiterer had retired from the banquet, and 
the lights in the palace of the victor were extinguished. 





SPARTACUS TO THE GLADIATORS. 


403 


The moon, piercing the tissue of fleecy clouds, silvered the 
dewdrop on the corselet of the Eoman sentinel, and tipped 
the dark waters of Volturnus with wavy, tremulous light. 
It was a night of holy calm, when the zephyr sways the 
young spring leaves, and whispers among the hollow reeds 
its dreamy music. No sound was heard but the last sob 
of some weary wave, telling its story to the smooth peb¬ 
bles of the beach, and then all was still as the breast when 
the spirit has departed. 

In the deep recesses of the ampitheatre a band of glad¬ 
iators were crowded together, — their muscles still knotted 
with the agony of conflict, the foam upon their lips, and 
the scowl of battle yet lingering upon their brows, — when 
Spartacus, rising in the midst of that grim assemblage, 
thus addressed them : — 

“Ye call me chief, and ye do well to caU him chief 
who, for twelve long years, has met upon the arena every 
shape of man or beast that the broad Empire of Eome 
could furnish, and yet never has lowered his arm. And 
if there be one among you who can say that, ever, in pub¬ 
lic fight or private brawl, my actions did belie my tongue, 
let him step forth and say it. If there be three in all 
your throng dare face me on the bloody sand, let them 
come on ! 

“ Yet, I was not always thus, a hired butcher, a savage 
chief of savage men. My father was a reverent man, who 
feared great Jupiter, and brought to the rural deities his 
offering's of fruits and flowers. He dwelt among the vine- 
clad rocks and olive groves at the foot of Helicon. My 
,early life ran quiet as the brook by which I sported. I 
was taught to prune the vine, to tend the flock ; and then, 
at noon, I gathered my sheep beneath the shade, and 
played upon the shepherd’s flute. I had a friend, the son 


404 


THE SIXTH READER 


of our neighbor; we led our flocks to the same pasture, 
and shared together our rustic meal. 

“One evening, after the sheep were folded, and we were 
all seated beneath the myrtle that shaded our cottage, my 
grandsire, an old man, was telling of Marathon and Leuc- 
tra, and how, in ancient times, a little band of Spartans, 
in a defile of the mountains, withstood a whole army. I 
did not then know what war meant; but my cheeks 
burned. I knew not why; and I clasped the knees of 
that venerable man, till my mother, parting the hair from 
off my brow, kissed my throbbing temples, and bade me 
go to rest, and think no more of those old tales and savage 
wars. 

“ That very night the Eomans landed on our shore, and 
the clash of steel was heard within our quiet vale. I saw 
the breast that had nourished me trampled by the iron 
hoof of the war-horse; the bleeding body of my father 
flung amid the blazing rafters of our dwelling. To-day 
I killed a man in the arena, and when I broke his helmet 
clasps, behold ! he was my friend ! He knew me, — smiled 
faintly, — gasped, — and died; the same sweet smile that 
I had marked upon his face when, in adventurous boy¬ 
hood, we scaled some lofty cliff to pluck the first ripe 
grapes, and bear them home in childish triumph. I told 
the praetor he was my friend, noble and brave, and I 
begged his body, that I might burn it upon the funeral- 
pile, and mourn over him. Ay, on my knees, amid the 
dust and blood of the arena, I begged that boon, while 
all the Eoman maids and matrons, and those holy virgins 
they call vestal, and the rabble; shouted in mockery, deem¬ 
ing it rare sport, forsooth, to see Eome’s fiercest gladiator 
turn pale, and tremble like a very child, before that piece 
of bleeding clay; but the prietor drew back as if I were 


SPARTACUS TO THE GLADIATORS. 


405 


pollution, and sternly said, ' Let the carrion rot! There 
are no noble men but Homans ! ’ And he, deprived of 
funeral rites, must wander, a hapless ghost, beside the 
waters of that sluggish, river, and look — and look — and 
look in vain to the bright Elysian Fields where dwell his 
ancestors and noble kindred. And so must you, and so 
must I, die like dos^s! 

■“ 0 Rome ! Rome 1 thou hast been a tender nurse to me ! 
Ay, thou hast given to that poor, gentle, timid shepherd- 
lad, who never knew a harsher sound than a flute-note, 
muscles of iron and a heart of flint; taught him to drive 
the sword through rugged brass and plaited mail, and 
warm it in the marrow of his foe! to gaze into the glaring 
eyeballs of the fierce Numidian lion, even as a smooth- 
cheeked boy upon a laughing girl. And he shall pay tliee 
back till thy yellow Tiber is red as frothing wine, and in 
its deepest ooze thy life-blood lies curdled! 

Ye stand here now like giants, as ye are ! the strength 
of brass is in your toughened sinews; but to-morrow some 
Roman Adonis, breathing sweet odors from his curly locks, 
shall come, and with his lily fingers pat your brawny 
shoulders, and bet his sesterces upon your blood ! Hark ! 
Hear ye yon lion roaring in his den ? ’T is three days 
since he tasted meat; but to-morrow he shall break his 
fast upon your flesh ; and ye shall be a dainty meal 
for him. 

“ If ye are brutes, then stand here like fat oxen waiting 
for the butcher’s knife ; if ye are men, follow me ! strike 
down yon sentinel, and gain the mountain passes, and 
there do bloody work as did your sires at old Thermopyloe! 
Is Sparta dead ? Is the old Grecian spirit frozen in your 
veins, that ye do crouch and cower like base-born slaves 
beneath your master’s lash ? 0 comrades! warriors ! 


406 


THE SIXTH READER. 


Thracians ! if we must fight, let us fight for ourselves; if 
we must slaughter, let us slaughter our oppressors; if we 
must die, let us die under the open sky, by the bright 
waters, in noble, honorable battle.” 


Cl. — LOCHIEL’S WAENING. 


CAMPBELL. 


Tn 1745, Charles Edward, grandson of James II., landed in Scotland, and soon 
gathered around him an army with which he marched into England, in order to re¬ 
gain possession of the throne from which his ancestors had been driven. He was 
brilliantly successful at first, and penetrated into England as far as Derby ; but he 
was then obliged to retreat, and, after many disasters, his army was entirely defeated 
by the English, under command of the Duke of Cumberland, at Culloden. 

Lochiel, the head of the warlike clan of the Camerons, was one of the most power¬ 
ful of the Highland chieftains, and a zealous supporter of the claims of Charles 
Edw’ard. Among the Highlanders are certain persons supposed to have the gift of 
second sight; that is, the power of foreseeing future events. Lochiel, on his way to 
join Charles Edward, is represented as meeting one of these seers, who endeavors in 
vain to dissuade him from his purpose. 


Seek, Lochiel. 

EER. Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day 



When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array ! 
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, 

And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight; 

They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown ; 
Woe, wme to the riders that trample them down ! 

Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain. 

And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. 

But hark ! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, 
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far'? 

T is thine, 0 Glenullin ! whose bride shall await, 

Like love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. 

A steed comes at morning : no rider is there ; 

But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. 




LOCHIEVS WARNING. 


407 


Weep, Albin ! ^ to death and captivity led ! 

0 weep ! but thy tears cannot number the dead ; 

For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave, — 

Culloden, that reeks with the blood of the brave. 

Lochiel. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer; 
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear. 

Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight 
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. 

Seer. Ha ! laugh’st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn 1 
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn ; 

Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth 

From his home in the dark-rolling clouds of the north! 

Lo ! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode 
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad ; 

But down let him stoop from his havoc on high! 

Ah, home let him speed, — for the spoiler is nigh. 

Why flames the far summit! Why shoot to the blast 
Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast! 

’T is the fire shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven 
From his eyry that beacons the darkness of heaven. 

0 crested Lochiel! the peerless in might. 

Whose banners arise on the battlements’ height. 

Heaven’s fire is around thee, to blast and to burn j 
Eeturn to thy dwelling ! all lonely return ! 

For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood. 

And a wild mother scream o’er her famishing brood! 

Lochiel. False wizard, avaunt! I have marshalled my clan; 
Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one! 

They are true to the last of their blood and their breath. 

And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. 

Then welcome be Cumberland’s steed to the shock ! 

Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock ! 

But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause. 

When Albin her claymore indignantly draws; 

* Tlie poetical name of Scotland. 


408 


THE SIXTH READER. 


When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, 

Clan Eonald the dauntless and Moray the proud; 

All plaided and plumed in their tartan array — 

Seer. Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day ! 

For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal. 

But man cannot cover what God would reveal : 

’T is the sunset of life gives me mystical lore. 

And coming events cast their shadows before. 

I tell thee, Culloden’s dread echoes shall ring 

With the blood-hounds that bark for thy fugitive king. 

Lo, anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath. 

Behold where he flies on his desolate path ! 

Now, in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my sight: ^ 
Bise ! rise ! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight! 

’T is finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors, 
Culloden is lost, and my country deplores. 

But where is the iron-bound prisoner 1 Where ] 

For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. 

Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, forlorn. 

Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn'? 

Ah, no ! for a darker dej^arture is near; 

The war drum is muffled, and black is the bier; 

His death-bell is tolling; 0, mercy, dispel 
Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell! 

Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, 

And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. 

Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his feet. 

Where his heart shall be thrown ere it ceases to beat. 

With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale — 

Lochiel. Down, soothless insulter ! I trust not the tale. 
Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore. 
Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore, 

Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, 

* Alluding to the perilous adventures and final escape of Charles, after the 
battle of Culloden. 


EXTRACT FROM RIENZL 


409 


Whilo the kindling of life in liis bosom remains, 
Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low. 

With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe! 
And, leaving in battle no blot on his name. 

Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame. 




CII —EXTEACT FEOM EIENZI. 

Misa MITFORD. 

Mary Russell Mitford was born at Alresford, in England, December 16, 1786; 
and died January 10, 1855. She published a number of works, comprising poems, 
sketches, and dramas, of which the best and most popular is “ Our Village,” a collec¬ 
tion of pictui-es of rural life and manners, written m a graceful and animated style, 
and pervaded with a most kindly and sympathetic spirit. She was very friendly to 
our country, and edited three volumes of “Stories of American Life by American 
Authors.” 

The following extract is from “ Rienzi,” the most successful of her dramas, founded 
on the fate and fortunes of a celebrated personage of that name, who in the fourteenth 
century was for a brief period the ruler of Rome. This speech is made by Rienzi to a 
Roman noble who was petitioning for the life of a brother who had been condemned 
to death. A brother of Rienzi’s had been killed by a servant of this same noble. 

A nd darest talk thou to me of brothers 1 Thou, 

Whose groom — wouldst have me break my own just 
laws. 

To save thy brother h thine ! Hast thou forgotten 
When that most beautiful and blameless boy. 

The prettiest jDiece of innocence that ever 
Breathed in this sinful world," lay at thy feet. 

Slain by thy pampered minion, and I knelt 
Before thee for redress, whilst thou — didst never 
Hear talk of retribution ! This is justice. 

Pure justice, not revenge ! Mark well, my lords, — 

Pure, equal justice. Martin Orsini 
Had open trial, is guilty, is condemned. 

And he shall die ! Lords, 

If ye could range before me all the peers. 




THE SIXTH EEABEB. 


410 


Prelates, and potentates of Christendom, — 

The holy pontiff kneeling at my knee. 

And emperors crouching at my feet, to sue 
For this great robber, — still I should be blind 
As justice. But this very day, a wife, 

One infant folded in her arms, and two 
Clinging to the poor rags that scarcely hid 
Her squalid form, grasped at my bridle-rein 
To beg her husband’s life, — condemned to die 
For some vile petty theft, some paltry scudi; 

And, whilst the fiery war-horse chafed and reared. 
Shaking his crest, and plunging to get free. 

There, midst the dangerous coil unmoved, she stood, 
Pleading in broken words and piercing shrieks. 

And hoarse, low, shivering sobs, the very cry 
Of nature ! And, when I at last said no, — 

For I said no to her, — she flung herself 
And those poor innocent babes between the stones 
And my hot Arab’s hoofs. We saved them all, — 
Thank Heaven, we saved them all! but I said no 
To that sad woman, midst her shrieks. Ye dare not 
Ask me for mercy now. 


BOOKS. 


411 


cm. —BOOKS. 

^ E. P. WHIPPLE. 

~PF such were the tendency of that great invention 
-L which leajied or bridged the harriers separating mind 
from mind and heart from heart, who shall calculate its 
effect in promoting private happiness? Books, light¬ 
houses erected in the great sea of time, — books, the 
precious depositories of the thoughts and creations of 
genius, — books, by whose sorcery times past become 
time present, and the whole pageantry of the world’s his¬ 
tory moves in solemn procession before our eyes, — these 
were to visit the firesides of the humble, and lavish the 
treasures of the intellect upon the poor. 

Could we have Plato and Shakespeare and Milton in 
our dwellings, in the full vigor of their imaginations, in 
the full freshness of their hearts, few scholars would be 
affluent enough to afford them physical support; but the 
living images of their minds are within the eyes of all. 
From their pages their mighty souls look out upon us in 
all their grandeur and beauty, undimmed by the faults and 
follies of earthly existence, consecrated by time. Precious 
and priceless are the blessings which the books scatter 
around our daily paths. We walk, in imagination, with 
the noblest spirits, through the most sublime and enchant¬ 
ing regions, — regions which, to all that is lovely in the 
forms and colors of earth, 

“ Add the gleam, 

Tlie light that never was on sea or land, 

The consecration and the poet’s dream.” 

A motion of the hand brings all Arcadia to sight. The 
war of Troy can, at our bidding, rage in the narrowest 
chamber. Without stirring from our firesides, we may 



412 


THE SIXTH READER. 


roam to the most remote regions of the earth, or soar into 
realms where Spencer’s shapes of unearthly beauty flock 
to meet us, where Milton’s angels peal in our ears the 
choral hymns of Paradise. Science, art, literature, phi¬ 
losophy,— all that man has tliought, all that man has 
done, — the experience that has been bought with the 
sufferings of a hundred generations, — all are garnered up 
for us in the world of books. 

There, among realities, in a ^‘substantial world,” we 
move with the crowned kings of thought. There our minds 
have a free range, our hearts a free utterance. Eeason is 
confined within none of tlie partitions which trammel it 
in life. The hard granite of conventionalism melts away 
as a thin mist. We call things by their right names. Our 
lips give not the lie to our hearts. We bend the knee 
only to the great and good. We despise only the despi¬ 
cable ; we honor only the honorable. In that world, no 
divinity hedges a king, no accident of rank or fashion 
ennobles a dunce or shields a knave. There, and almost 
only there, do our affections have free play. We can se¬ 
lect our companions from the most richly gifted of the 
sons of God, and they are companions who will not de¬ 
sert us in poverty, or sickness, or disgrace. 

When everything else fails, — when fortune frowns, 
and friends cool, and health forsakes us, — when this 
great world of forms and shows appears a “ two-edged lie, 
which seems but is not,” — when all our earth-clinoin" 
hopes and ambitions melt away into nothingness, — 

“Like snow-falls on a river, 

One moment white, then gone forever,” — 

we are still not without friends to animate and console 
us, — friends, in whose immortal countenances, as they 
look out upon us from books, we can discern no change; 


ELEGY WRITTEN IN A CHURCHYARD. 413 

who will dignify low fortunes and humble life with their 
kingly presence; who will people solitude with shapes 
more glorious than ever glittered in palaces; who will 
consecrate sorrow, and take the sting from care; and who, 
in the long hours of despondency and weakness, will send 
healing to the sick heart, and energy to the wasted brain. 
Well might Milton exclaim, in that impassioned speech 
for the Liberty of Unlicensed Printing, where every word 
leaps with intellectual life, “Who kills a man, kills a 
reasonable creature, God’s image; but who destroys a 
good book, kills reason itself, kills the image of God, as it 
were in the eye. Many a man lives a burden upon the 
earth; but a good book is the precious life-blood of a 
master spirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose for 
a life beyond life ! ” 


■♦O#- 


CIV. —ELEGY WEITTEN UsT A COUNTEY 

CHUECHYAED. 

GRAY. 

Thomas Gray was bom in London, December 26, 1716; and died July 30, 1771. 
Though he has written but little, he holds a high rank in Englisli literature from the 
energy, splendor, and perfect finish of his poetical style. He was one of the most 
learned men of his time, and his letters are delightful from their playfulness and grace. 
His “ Elegy in a Country Churchyard ” is, perhaps, the most populai piece of poetiw 
in the English language. “ It abounds,” says Dr. Johnson, “with images which find 
a mirror in every mind, and with sentiments to which every bosom r-turns an echo,” 

T he curfew tolls tlie knell of parting day. 

The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the len,, 

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 

And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the siglu., 

And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 





THE SIXTH READER. 

Ajll A . 

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; 
cv 

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower. 

The moping owl does to the moon complain 

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower. 

Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade. 
Where heaves tlie turf in many a mouldering heap, 

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 

The rude forefathers of tlie hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn. 

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed. 

The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn. 

Or busy housewife ply her evening car.e ; 

No children run to lisp their sire’s return. 

Or climb his knees, the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield. 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 

How jocund did tliey drive their team afield ! 

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil. 

Their homely joys and destiny obscure ; 

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power. 

And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave. 

Await alike th’ inevitable hour : — 

The patlis of glory lead but to the grave. 




1 . ELEGY WRITTEN IN A CHURCHYARD. 415 

1 Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 

» If memory o’er their tomb no trophies raise, 

.(j Wliere througli the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 

j The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

r 

/ 

























































416 


THE SIXTH READEK 


Can storied urn or animated bust 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath 

Can Honor’s voice provoke the silent dust, 

Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of Death % 

Perhaps, in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnant with celestial Are ; 

Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed. 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 

Eich with the spoils of time, did ne’er unroll; 

Chill Penury repressed their noble rage. 

And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 

The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear ; 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 

And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast 
The little tyrant of his flelds withstood. 

Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest; 

Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country’s blood. 

Th’ applause of list’ning senates to command, 

The threats of pain and ruin to despise. 

To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land. 

And read their history in a nation’s eyes. 

Their lot forbade; nor circumscribed alone 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind j 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 

. To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame. 



ELEGY WRITTEN IN A CHURCHYARD. 417 


Or lieap the shrine of luxury and pride 
AVith incense kindled at the Muse’s flame. 

Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife 
Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; 

Along the cool, sequestered vale of life 

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet e’en these hones from insult to protect, 

Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 

AYith uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked. 
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their names, their years, spelt by th’ unlettered Muse, 
The place of fame and elegy supply ; 

And many a holy text around she strews. 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey. 

Their pleasing, anxious being e’er resigned. 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day. 

Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind % 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies. 

Some pious drops the closing eye requires; 

E’en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries. 

E’en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of th’ unhonored dead. 

Dost in these lines their artless tale relate. 

If ’chance, by lonely contemplation led, 

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, — 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 

“ Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn. 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away. 

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 




418 


THE SIXTH READER. 


“ There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 

His listless length at -noontide would he stretch. 

And 23ore ui3on the brook that babbles by. 

“ Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn. 

Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove, 

How drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn. 

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 

“One morn I missed him on the customed hill. 

Along the heath, and near his favorite tree : 

Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, 

Hor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ; 

“ The next, with dirges due, in sad array. 

Slow through the church way path we saw him borne. 

AiDproach, and read (for thou canst read) the lay 
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.” 


THE EPITAPH, 


Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth, 

A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown. 

Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth. 

And Melancholy marked him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; 

Heaven did a recomjDense as largely send : 

He gave to misery, all he had, a tear, — 

He gained from Heaven (Twas all he wished) a friend. 

Ho farther seek his merits to disclose, 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode 
(There they alike in trembling hope repose). 

The bosom of his Father and his God. 








HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP. 


419 


CV. —HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP. 

MRS. BROWNING. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning was born in London in 1809. She was married to 
Robert Browning in 1846, and died .Tune 29, 1861. The greater part of her married life 
was passed in Italy, a country in whose fate and fortunes she took an enthusiastic in¬ 
terest. Her first volume was published in 1826. In 1833 she published a translation of 
“ Prometheus Bound.” In these early volumes there is little of that originality and vigor 
which mark her later poems, such as “ Aurora Leigh,” “ Casa Guidi Windows,” and the 
remarkable sonnets from the Portuguese. She was a woman of rare and high genius, 
marked by imagination and originality of treatment, and hardly less so by her in¬ 
tense sympathy with every form of suffering. She is sometimes obscure in expression ; 
her poetry is sometimes wanting in perfect taste, and frequently needs compression ; 
but she is unequalled for power of thought, splendor of coloring, and a varied and 
passionate energy. She was not less distinguished for her learning than for her 
■genius. She was an admirable Greek scholar, and published in one of the English 
periodicals a series of striking translations from the Greek Christian poets. She was a 
person of very delicate organization, and from the pressure of constant ill health com¬ 
pelled to lead a life of constant seclusion. During her married life in Italy, she became 
known to several Americans, who found her as remarkable for sweetness, simplicity, 
and unaffected grace of manner as for genius and learning. The Italians have marked 
their sense of her enthusiastic interest in their cause, by an Italian inscription on the 
Walls of the house in Florence in which she lived for many years, and where she wrote 
her “ Casa Guidi Windows.” 

O F all the thoughts of God that are 
Borne inward unto souls afar, 

Along the Psalmist’s music deep, 

Now tell me if that any is. 

For gift or grace, surpassing this, — 

“ He giveth his beloved sleep ” 

What would we give to our beloved % 

The hero’s heart to be unmoved. 

The poet’s star-tuned harp to sweep. 

The patriots voice to teach and rouse. 

The monarch’s crown to light the brow's. 

He giveth his beloved sleep ! 

What do we give to our beloved 1 
A little faith all undisproved. 


. \ 





420 


THE SIXTH READER. 


A little dust to overweep, 

And bitter memories to make »r 
The whole earth blasted for our sake, — 

He giveth his beloved sleep. 

“ Sleep soft, beloved ! ” we sometimes say. 
But have no tune to charm away 
Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep; 
But never doleful dream again 
Shall break his happy slumber when 
He giveth his beloved sleep. 

0 earth, so full of dreary noises ! 

0 men, with wailing in your voices ! 

0 delved gold, the waller’s heap ! 

0 strife and curse that o’er it fall! 

God strikes a silence through you all. 

He giveth his beloved sleep. 

His dews drop mutely on the hill; - 
His cloud above it saileth still. 

Though on its slope men sow and reap; 
More softly than the dew is shed, 

Or cloud is floated overhead. 

He giveth his beloved sleep. 

Ay, men may wonder while they scan 
A living, thinking, feeling man 
Confirmed in such a rest to keep ; 

But angels say, — and through the word 
I think their happy smile is HEARD, — 
He giveth his beloved sleep ! 

Eor me my heart, that ersk^ did go 
Most like a tired child at a show. 


* Formerly. 


THE HONORED DEAD. 


421 


That sees through tears the mummer’s leap, 
Would now its wearied vision close, 

Would childlike on His love repose 
Who giveth his beloved sleep. 

And friends, dear friends, when it shall be 
ihat this low breath is gone from me. 

And round my bier ye come to weep. 

Let One most loving of you all 
Say, “Not a tear must o’er her fall; 

He giveth his beloved sleep.” ^ '—'T ' 


^ J y 


CVI. — THE HONORED DEAD. 


H. W. BEECHER. 


Henry Ward Beecher was born in Litchlield, Connecticut, June 24,1813; gradu¬ 
ated at Amherst College in 1834 ; studied theology under his father, the Rev, Lyman 
Beecher; and since 1847 has been pastor of tlie Plymouth Church in Brooklyn, N. Y. 
He is an eloquent and effective preacher, and, as a lecturer to the people, he enjoys an 
unrivalled popularity, earned by the happy combination of humor, pathos, earnest¬ 
ness, and genial sympathy with humanity, which his discourses present. He is a 
man of great energy of temperament, fervently opposed to every form of oppression 
and injustice, and with a poet's love of nature. His style is rich, glowing, and ex¬ 
uberant. The following extract is from the “Star Papers,” a volume made up of 
papers which originally appeared in the “New York Independent.” 



OW bright are the honors which await those who, 


-J—L with sacred fortitude and patriotic patience, have 
endured all things that they might save their native land 
from division and from the power of corruption ! The 
honored dead! They that die for a good cause, are re¬ 
deemed from death. Their names are gathered and gar¬ 
nered. Their memory is precious. Each place grows 
proud for them who were born there. There is to be 
erelong, in every village and in every neighborhood, a 
glowing pride in its martyred heroes. 




422 


THE SIXTH READER. 


Tablets shall preserve their names. Pious love shall 
renew their inscriptions as time and the unfeeling ele¬ 
ments decay them. And the national festivals shall give 
multitudes of precious names to the orator’s lips. Chil¬ 
dren shall grow up under more sacred inspirations whose 
elder brothers, dying nobly for their country, left a name 
that honored and inspired all who bore it. Orphan chil¬ 
dren shall find thousands of fathers and mothers to love 
and help those whom dying heroes left as a legacy to the 
gratitude of the public. 

0, tell me not that they are dead, — that generous 
host, that airy army of invisible heroes ! They hover as 
a cloud of witnesses above this nation. Are they dead 
that yet speak louder than we can speak, and a more uni¬ 
versal language ? Are they dead that yet act ? Are they 
dead that yet move upon society, and inspire the people 
with nobler inotives and more heroic patriotism ? 

Ye that mourn, let gladness mingle with your tears. 
He was your son ; but now he is the nation’s. He made 
your household bright; now his example inspires a thou¬ 
sand households. Dear to his brothers and sisters, he is 
now brother to every generous youth in the land. 

Before, he was narrowed, appropriated, shut up to you. 
Now he is augmented, set free, and given to all. He has 
died from the family, tliat he might live to the nation. 
Not one name shall be forgotten or neglected; and it 
shall by and by be confessed, as of an ancient hero, that 
he did more for liis country by his death than by his 
whole life. 

Every mountain and hill shall have its treasured name ; 
every river shall keep some solemn title; every valley and 
every lake shall cherish its honored register; and till the 
mountains are worn out, and the rivers forget to flow, till 


AMERICA THE OLD WORLD. 


423 


the clouds are weary of replenishing springs, and the 
springs forget to gush, and the rills to sing, shall their 
names be kept fresh with reverent honors which are in¬ 
scribed upon the book of National Eemembrance! 



V 

evil—AMEEICA THE OLD WOELD. 


LOUIS AGASSIZ. 


Louis John Rudolph Agassiz was born at Mottier, near Lake Nonchatel in Swit¬ 
zerland, May 28, 1807; and died in Cambridge, Massachusetts, December 15, 1873. 
He devoted liimself to natural history from his early youth. He gained at an early 
age the friendship) of Cuvier and Humboldt, by whom he was warmly encouraged and 
aided in his labors and studies. The three subjects which claimed his sj)ecial atten¬ 
tion were the fossil fishes, fresh-water fishes of' Eurojie, and the formation of glaciers, 
on all of which he published elaborate and valuable works. In 1846, being in the en¬ 
joyment of a world-wide reputation as a naturalist, he came to America. In 1848 he 
was appointed Pi'ofessor of Zoology and Geology in the Lawrence Scientific School at 
Cambridge, where he resided until the time of his death. He gave an immense im¬ 
pulse to the study of natural history by his indefatigable activity and the magnetism 
of his personal presence and manners. He devoted himself with great energy to the 
formation of a Museum of Comparative Zoology at Cambridge. In 1865 he made a 
scientific journey to Brazil, the results of which were published in a volume by Mrs. 
Agassiz. He was a foreign associate of the Institute of France, and a member of the 
leading scientific bodies of Europe, from many of which he had received medals and 
other marks of distinction. He was warmly beloved by his friends, and has trained a 
body of enthusiastic young naturalists by whom the labors he left unfinished will be 
continued with his zeal and in his spirit. 


lEST-BOEN among the continents, thongli so much 



J- later in culture and civilization than some of more 
recent birth, America, so far as her physical history is 
concerned, has been falsely denominated the New 
W oKLD. Hers was the first dry land lifted out of the 
waters, hers the first shores washed liv the ocean that 
enveloped all the earth beside; and while Europe was 
represented only by islands rising here and there above 
the sea, America already stretched an unbroken line of 
land from Nova Scotia to the Ear West. 



424 


THE SIXTH READER. 


There was a time when our earth was in a state of 
igneous fusion, when no ocean bathed it, and no atmos- 
pliere surrounded it^ when no wind blew over it, and no 
rain fell upon it, but an intense heat held all its mate¬ 
rials in solution. In those days, the rocks, which are now 
the very bones and sinews of our mother Earth, — her 
granites, her porphyries, her basalts, her sienites, — were 
melted into a liquid mass. 

From artesian wells, from mines, from geysers, from 
hot-springs, a mass of facts has been collected, proving 
incontestably the heated condition of all substances at a 
certain depth below the earth’s surface; and if we need 
more positive evidence, we have it in the fiery eruptions 
that even now bear fearful testimony to the molten ocean 
seething within the globe and forcing its way out from 
time to time. The modern progress of geology has led 
us, by successive and perfectly connected steps, back to a 
time when what is now only an occasional and rare phe¬ 
nomenon was the normal condition of our earth; when 
those internal fires were enclosed in an envelope so thin 
that it opposed but little resistance to their frequent out¬ 
break, and they constantly forced themselves through 
this crust, pouring out melted materials that subse¬ 
quently cooled and consolidated on its surface. So con¬ 
stant were these eruptions, and so slight was the resist¬ 
ance they encountered, that some portions of the earlier 
rock-deposits are perforated with numerous chimneys, 
narrow tunnels as it were, bored by the liquid masses 
that poured out through them and greatly modified their 
first condition. 

There was another element without the globe, equally 
powerful in building it up. Eire and water wrought 
together in this work, if not always harmoniously, at 



425 



AMERICA THE OLD WORLD. 

least -with equal force and persistency. Water is a very 
active agent of destruction, but it works over again the 
materials it pulls down or wears away, and bufids them 
up anew in other forms. 

There is, perhaps, no part of the world, certainly none 
familiar to science, where the early geological periods can 
be studied with so much ease and precision as in the 
United States. Along their northern borders, between 
Canada and the United States, there runs the low line of 
hills known as the Laurentian Hills. Insignificant in 
height, nowhere rising more than fifteen hundred or two 
thousand feet above the level of the sea, these are never¬ 
theless the first mountains tliat broke the uniform level 
of the earth s surface and lifted themselves above the 
waters. Their low stature, as compared with that of 
other more lofty mountain-ranges, is in accordance with 
an invariable rule, by which the relative ages of moun¬ 
tains may be estimated. The oldest mountains are the 
lowest, while the younger and more recent ones tower 
above their elders, and are usually more torn and dislo¬ 
cated also. This is easily understood, when we remem¬ 
ber that all mountains and mountain-chains are the 
result of upheavals, and that the violence of tlie outbreak 
must have been in proportion to the strength of the 
resistance. 

When the crust of the earth was so thin that the 
heated masses within easily broke through it, they 
were not thrown to so great a height, and formed com¬ 
paratively low elevations, such as the Canadian hills or 
the mountains of Bretagne and Wales. But in later 
times, when young, vigorous giants, such as tlie Alps, the 
Himalayas, or, later still, the Eocky Mountains, forced 
their way out from their fiery prison-liouse, the crust of 






426 


THE SIXTH READER 


the earth was much thicker, and fearful indeed must 
have been the convulsions which attended their exit. 

Such, ‘then, was the earliest American land, — a long, 
narrow island, almost continental in its proportions, since 
it stretched from the eastern borders of Canada nearly to 
the point where now the base of the Eocky Mountains 
meet the plain of the Mississippi Valley. We may still 
walk along its ridge and know that we tread upon the 
ancient granite that first divided the waters into a north¬ 
ern and southern ocean; and if our imaginations will 
carry us so far, we may look down toward its base and 
fancy how the sea washed against this earliest shore of a 
lifeless world. 

This is no romance, but the bold, simple truth; for the 
fact that this granite band was lifted out of the waters so 
early in the history of the world, and has not since been 
submerged, has, of course, prevented any subsequent de¬ 
posits from forming above it. And this is true of all the 
northern part of the United States. It has been lifted 
gradually, the beds deposited in one period being sub-^ 
seqiiently raised, and forming a shore along which those 
of the succeeding one collected, so that we have their 
whole sequence before us. 

For this reason the American continent offers facilities 
to the geologist denied to him in the so-called Old World, 
Avhere the earlier deposits are comparatively hidden, and 
the broken character of the land, intersected by moun¬ 
tains in every direction, renders his investigation still 
more difficult. 


A TRIBUTE TO MASBAGHUSETTB. 


427 


CVIIL —A TRIBUTE TO MASSACHUSETTS. 

SUMNER. 

The following is an extract from Mr. Sumner’s speech in the Senate, May 19 and 
20, 1856. 

G OI) be praised, Massachusetts, honored Common¬ 
wealth, that gives me the privilege to plead for 
Kansas on this floor, knows her rights, and will maintain 
them firmly to the end. Tliis is not the first time in his¬ 
tory that her public acts have been impeached and her 
public men exposed to contumely. Thus was it in the 
olden time, when she began the great battle wliose fruits 
you all enjoy. But never yet has she occupied a position 
so lofty as at this hour. By the intelligence of her popu¬ 
lation, by the resources of her industry, by her commerce, 
cleaving every wave, by her manufactures, various as 
human skill, by her institutions of education, various as 
liuman knowledge, by her institutions of benevolence, 
various as iiurnan suffering, by the pages of her scholars 
and historians, by the voices of her poets and orators, she 
is now exerting an influence more subtile and command¬ 
ing than ever before, — shooting her far-darting rays 
wherever ignorance, wretchedness, or wrong prevails, and 
flashing light even upon those who travel far to persecute 
lier. Such is Massachusetts ; and 1 am proud to believe 
that you may as well attempt with puny arm to topple 
down the earth-rooted, heaven-kissing granite which 
crowns the historic sod of Bunker Hill, as to change her 
fixed resolve for Freedom everywhere. 

Sir, to men on earth it belongs only to deserve success, 
not to secure it; and I know not how soon the efforts of 
IMassachusetts will wear the crown of triumph. But it 
cannot be that she acts wrong for herself or her children, 


428 


THE SIXTH READER. 


when in this canse she encounters reproach. No : by the 
generous souls once exposed at Lexington, — by those 
who stood arrayed at Bunker Hill, — by the many from 
her bosom who, on all the fields of the first great struggle, 
lent their vigorous arms to the cause of all, — by the 
children she has borne whose names alone are national 
trophies, is Massachusetts now vowed irrevocably to this 
work. What belongs to the faithful servant she will do 
in all things, and Providence shall determine the result. 


-♦ 0 «“ 


CIX. — NAPOLEON; OE, THE MAN OF THE 

WOELD. 

RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson, an American essayist and poet, was born in Boston, May 
25, 1803 : and graduated at Harvard College, 1821. In 1829 he was settled as a Unita¬ 
rian clergyman in Boston, but, in 1832, he dissolved his connection with his people 
on account of some differences of opinion respecting the Lord’s Supper. In 1835 he 
went to reside in Concord, Mass., which has been his home ever since. He is a man 
of peculiar and original genius, combining spiritual and imaginative beauty with sharp 
practical insight. He has no system in his thoughts, and his ideas are not connected 
by any law of logical sequence. He enunciates truth in aphorisms, and his transi¬ 
tions are sudden and abrupt. His style is remarkable for its condensed beauty. No 
writer has given utterance to a greater number of thoughts that have passed as quo¬ 
tations into common circulation. His influence is wide, but it is rather exerted 
through the minds of his disciples than directly. He is a bold questioner of every¬ 
thing, and submits all received opinions in theology, politics, literature, and morals 
to the test of pure and independent reason. As a lecturer he finds great favor with 
thoughtful and cultivated audiences, but the common mind can hardly follow his 
sudden changes and abrupt transitions. His manner is very attractive, combining 
in a high degree dignity, simplicity, and impulsiveness. He has written some 
poetry, the best of which has the same characteristics of beauty and originality as 
his prose writings. 

A MONGt tbe eminent persons of the nineteenth cen¬ 
tury, Bonaparte is far the best known and the 
most powerful, and owes his predominance to the fidel¬ 
ity with which he expresses the tone of thought and 




NAPOLEON; OR, THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 429 

belief, the aims of the masses of active and cultivated 
men. 

Bonaparte was the idol of common men, because he 
had in transcendent degree the qualities and powers of 
common men. 

Bonaparte wrought, in common with that great class 
he represented, for power and wealth, — but Bonaparte, 
specially, without any scruple as to the means. All the 
sentiments which embarrass men’s pursuit of these ob¬ 
jects he set aside. The sentiments were for women and 
children. 

Napoleon renounced, once for all, sentiments and affec¬ 
tions, and would help himself witli his hands and his 
head. With him is no miracle, and no magic. He is a 
worker in brass, in iron, in wood, in earth, in roads, in 
buildings, in money, and in troops, and a very consistent 
and wise mas ter-workman. He is never weak and lite¬ 
rary, but acts with the solidity and the precision of 
natural agents. He has not lost his native sense and 
sympathy with things. Men give way before such a 
man, as before natural events. 

But Bonaparte superadded to this mineral and animal 
force, insight and generalization, so that men saw in him 
combined the natural and the intellectual power, as if the 
sea and land had taken flesh and begun to cipher. There¬ 
fore the land and sea seem to presuppose him. He came 
unto his own, and they received liim. 

The art of war was the game in which he exerted his 
arithmetic. It consisted, according to him, in having 
always more forces than the enemy on the point where 
the enemy is attacked, or where he attacks; and his 
whole talent is strained by endless manoeuvre and evolu¬ 
tion, to march always on the enemy at an angle, and 


430 


THE SIXTH READER. 


destroy his forces in detail. It is obvious that a very 
small force, skilfully and rapidly manoeuvring, so as 
always to bring two men against one at the point of 
engagement, will be an overmatch for a much larger 
body of men. 

Nature must have far the greatest share in every suc¬ 
cess, and so in his. Such a man was wanted, and such a 
man was born; a man of stone and iron, capable of sit¬ 
ting on horseback sixteen or seventeen hours, of going 
many days together without rest or food, except by 
snatches, and with the speed and spring of a tiger in 
action; a man not embarrassed by any scruples; com¬ 
pact, instant, selfish, prudent, and of a perception which 
did not suffer itself to be balked or misled by any pre¬ 
tences of others, or any superstition, or any heat or haste 
of his own. 

My hand of iron,” he said, “ was not at the extremity 
of my arm, it was immediately connected with my head.” 
He respected the power of nature and fortune, and 
ascribed to it his superiority, instead of valuing himself, 
like inferior men, on his opinionativeness, and waging 
war with nature. His favorite rhetoric lay in allusion to 
his star; and he pleased himself, as well as the people, 
when he styled himself the '' Child of Destiny.” 

They charge me,” he said, with the commission of 
great crimes. Men of my stamp do not commit crimes. 
Nothing has been more simple than my elevation ; ’t is in 
vain to ascribe it to intrigue or crime; it was owing to 
the peculiarity of the times, and to my reputation of 
having fought well against the enemies of my country. 
I have always marched with tlie opinion of great masses, 
and with events.” 

Napoleon understood his business. Here was a man 


NAPOLEON; OR, THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 431 

who, in each moment and emergency, knew what to do 
next. It is an immense comfort and refreshment to the 
spirits, not only of kings, hut of citizens. Few men have 
any next; they live from hand to mouth, without plan, 
and are ever at the end of their line, and, after each 
action, wait for an impulse from abroad. 

His victories were only so many doors, and he never 
for a moment lost sight of his way onward in the dazzle 
and uproar of the present circumstance. He knew what 
to do, and he flew to his mark. He would shorten a 
straight line to come at his object. Horrible anecdotes 
may, no doubt, be collected from his history, of the price 
at which he bought his successes; but he must not there¬ 
fore be set down as cruel, but only as one who knew no 
impediment to his will; not bloodthirsty, not cruel, — 
but woe to what thing or person stood in his way ! Not 
bloodthirsty, but not sparing of blood, — and pitiless. 

On any point of resistance, he concentrated squadron 
on squadron in overwhelmning numbers, until it was 
swept out of existence. To a regiment of horse chasseurs 
at Lobenstein, two days before the battle of Jena, Napo¬ 
leon said, “ My lads, you must not fear death; when sol¬ 
diers brave death, they drive him into the enemy’s ranks.” 

^ Each victory was a new weapon. “ My power would 
fall were I not to support it by new achievements. Con¬ 
quest has made me what I am, and conquest must main¬ 
tain me.” He felt, with every wise man, that .,as much 
life is needed for conservation as for creation. We are 
always in peril, always in a bad plight, just on the edge 
of destruction, and only to be saved by invention and 

courage. 

This vigor was guarded and tempered by the coldest 
prudence and punctuality. A thunderbolt in the attack. 


432 


THE SIXTH READER. 


he was found invulnerable in his intrenchments. His 
very attack was never the inspiration of courage, but the 
result of calculation. 

The lesson he teaches is that which vigor always 
teaches, — that there is always room for it. To what 
heaps of cowardly doubts is not that man’s life an answer. 
When he appeared, it was the belief of all military men 
that there could be nothing new in war; as it is the belief 
of men to-day, that nothing new can be undertaken in 
politics, or in church, or in letters, or in trade, or in farm¬ 
ing, or in our social manners and customs; and as it is, 
at all times, the belief of society that the world is made 
up. But Bonaparte knew better than society; and, more¬ 
over, knew that he knew better. 

Bonaparte was singularly destituta of generous senti¬ 
ments. The highest placed individual in the most culti¬ 
vated age and population of the world, he has not the 
merit of common truth and honesty. He is unjust to his 
generals; egotistic and monopolizing; meanly stealing 
the credit of their great actions from Kellermann, from 
Bernadotte; intriguing to involve his faithful Junot in 
hopeless bankruptcy, in order to drive him to a distance 
from Paris, because the familiarity of his manners offends 
the new pride of his throne. 

He is a boundless liar. The official paper, his “ Moni- 
teurs,” and all his bulletins, are proverbs for saying what 
he wished to be believed; and worse, — he sat, in his 

V 

premature old age, in his lonely island, coldly falsifying 
facts and dates and characters, and giving to history a 
theatrical eclat. Like all Frenchmen, he has a passion 
for stage effect. Every action that breathes of generosity 
is poisoned by this calculation. His star, his love of 
glory, his doctrine of the immortality of the soul, are all 
French. 


4 


the lord of BUTRAGO. 433 

He did all that in him lay, to live and thrive without 
moral principle. It was the nature of things, the eternal 
law of man and the world, which baulked and ruined 
him; and the result, in a million experiments, will be the 
same. Every experiment, by multitudes or by individ¬ 
uals, that has a sensual and selfish aim, will fail. 


-♦ 04 - 


CX. —THE LORD OF BUTRAGO. 

J. G. LOCKHART. 

John Gibson Lockhart was a man of brilliant literal^' powers. He wrote “Va¬ 
lerius,” “Matthew Wald,” “Adam Blair,” and “Reginald Dalton,” all novels ; “Pe¬ 
ter s Letters, a series of sketches of Scotch society and of eminent men in Scotland; 
and a volume of translations from the Spanish ballads. He was also a frequent con¬ 
tributor to the earlier numbers of “Blackwood’s Magazine.” He was born in Glas¬ 
gow, in 1/92, and died at Abbotsford, in 1854. He had been for many years editor of 
the “ Quarterly Review.” 

“ OUE horse is faint, my king, — my lord ! your gallant 
JL horse is sick, — 

His limbs are torn, his breast is gored, on his eye the film is 
thick ; 

Mount, mount on mine, oh, mount apace, I pray thee, mount 
and fly ! 

Or in my arms I ’ll lift your grace, — their trampling hoofs are 
nigh ! 

‘‘ My king, — my king ! you ’re wounded sore, — the blood runs 
from your feet; 

But only lay a hand before, and I ’ll lift you to your seat: 
JMount, Juan, for they gather fast! I hear their coming cry, — 
Mount, mount, and ride for jeopardy, — I ’ll save you though 
I die! 

“ Stand, noble steed ! this hour of need, — be gentle as a lamb : 
I ’ll kiss the foam from off thy mouth, — thy master dear I 
am, — 




434 


THE SIXTH READER. 


Mount, Juan, mount! whate’er betide, away the bridle fling, 
And plunge the rowels in his side j — niy horse shall save my 


king! 


“Nay, never speak; my sires, lord king, received their land 
from yours, 

And joyfully their blood shall spring, so be it thine secures : 

If I should fly, and thou, my king, be found among the dead, 
How could I stand ’mong gentlemen, such scorn on my gray 


head h 


“ Castile’s proud dames shall never point the finger of disdain. 
And say there’s one that ran away when our good lords were 
slain ! — 

I leave Diego in your care, — you ’ll fill his father’s place : 
Strike, strike the spur, and never spare, — God’s blessing on 
your grace ! ” 

So spake the brave Montanez, Butrago’s lord was he; 

And turned him to the coming host in steadfastness and glee; 
He flung himself among them, as they came down the hill — 
He died, God wot! but not before his sword had drunk its 


fill. 


CXI. —MILTON ON HIS BLINDNESS. 


ELIZABETH LLOYD. 



-L. Men point at me as smitten by God’s frown : 
Afflicted and deserted of my kind. 

Yet am I not cast down. 


AM old and blind ! 


I am weak, yet strong : 

I murmur not that I no longer see; 



MILTON ON HIS BLINDNESS. 


435 


Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong, 

Father Supreme, to thee. 

0 merciful One! 

When men are farthest, then art thou most near; 
AVhen friends pass by, my weakness to shun. 

Thy chariot I hear. 

Thy glorious face 

Is leaning toward me, and its holy light 
Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-place, — 

And there is no more night. 

On bended knee 

I recognized thy purpose, clearly shown; 

My vision thou hast dimmed, that I may see 
Thyself, thyself alone. 

I have naught to fear; 

This darkness is the shadow of thy wing; 
Beneath it I am almost sacred, — here 
Can come no evil thing. 

0 I seem to stand 

Trembling ! where foot of mortal ne’er hath been, 
Wrapped in the radiance from thy sinless land. 
Which eye hath never seen. 

Visions come and go ; 

Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng ; 
From angel lips I seem to hear the flow 
Of soft and holy song. 

It is nothing now, 

When Heaven is opening on my sightless eyes. 
When airs from Paradise refresh my brow, — 
That earth in darkness lies. 



436 


THE SIXTH READER. 


CXIL —NATIONAL INJUSTICE. 

THEODORE PARKER. 

Theodore Parker, an American clergyman and reformer, was bom in Lexington, 
Massachusetts, August 24, 1810; and died at Florence, Italy, May 10, 1860. He 
studied theology at the Divinity School in Cambridge, and was settled over the 
Unitarian Society in West Roxbury. In 1846 he was settled over a congregation in 
Boston. Here he preached, in the Music Hall, every Sunday, to immense audiences. 
He became early known for his energetic denial of many of the doctrines regarded as 
vital by a majority of Christians, while he maintained with great power those which 
he regarded as vital, such as the existence of a personal God, the immortality of the 
soul, and the beauty of a pure and holy life. He threw himself with great ardor into 
the social questions of his time, and was in all things a zealous and uncompromising 
reformer. He was fearless and aggressive, sometimes unjust in his denunciations, 
but always faithful to his own convictions of duty. He was one of the earliest and 
most fervid of the opponents of slavery in New England. He rvas a friend of tem¬ 
perance and an advocate of peace. Notwithstanding the time which he gave to these 
subjects, he was a hard .student of books, accumulated an immense library, and was 
remarkable for the wide range of his knowle Ige. Since his death biograirhies have 
api)eared, by John Weiss and Octavius B. Frothingham. 

D O you know how empires find their end ? Yes, the 
great states eat up the little: as with fish, so with 
nations. Ay, hut how do the great states come to an 
end? By their own injustice, and no other cause. 

Come with me into the Inferno of the nations, with 
such poor guidance as my lamp can lend. Let us dis¬ 
quiet and bring up the awful shadows of empires buried 
long ago, and learn a lesson from the tomb. 

Come, old Assyria, with the Ninevitish dove upon thy 
emerald crown. What laid thee low ? ‘‘I fell by my 

own injustice. Thereby Nineveh and Babylon came 
with me to the ground.” 0 queenly Persia, flame of the 
nations, wherefore art thou so fallen, who troddest the 
people under thee, bridgedst the Hellespont with ships, 
and pouredst thy temple-wasting millions on the western 
world ? “ Because I trod the people under me, bridged 

the Hellespont with ships, and poured my temple-wasting 


NATIONAL INJUSTICE. 


437 


millions on tlio wostorn world. I fell by my own mis¬ 
deeds.” 

Thou muse-like Grecian queen, fairest of all tliy classic 
sisterhood of states, enchanting yet the world with thy 
sweet witchery, speaking in art and most seductive song, 
why liest thou there with beauteous yet dishonored brow, 
reposing on thy broken harp? “I scorned the law of 
God ; banished and poisoned wisest, justest men ; I loved 
the loveliness of flesh embalmed in Parian stone ; I loved 
the loveliness of thought, and treasured that in more than 
Parian speech ; but the beauty of justice, the loveliness 
of love, I trod them down to earth. Lo, therefore have I 
become as those barbarous states, — as one of them.” 

O manly, majestic Ptome ! Thy seven-fold mural crown 
all broken at thy feet, wliy art tliou here ? ’T was not 
injustice brought thee low, for thy great book of law is 
prefaced wdth these words, Justice is the unchanging, 
EVERLASTING WILL TO GIVE EACH MAN HIS RIGHT ! “It 
was not the saint’s ideal; it was the liypocrite’s pretence. 
I made iniquity my law. I trod the nations under me. 
Their wealtli gilded my palaces. Where thou mayst 
see the fox and hear the owl, it fed my courtiers and my 
courtesans. Wicked men were my cabinet counsellors. 
The flatterer breathed his poison in my ear. Millions of 
bondmen wet the soil with tears and blood. Do you not 
hear it crying yet to God ? Lo, liere have I iny recom¬ 
pense, tormented with such dowmfalls as you see! 

“Go back and tell the new-born child who sittetli on the 
Alleghanies, laying liis either hand upon a tributary sea, a 
crown of thirty stars upon his brow; — tell him there are 
rights which states must keep, or they shall suffer wrong. 
Tell him there is a God, who keeps the black man and 
the white, and hurls to earth the loftiest realm that 




438 


THE SIXTH READER. 


breaks his just, eternal law ! Warn the young empire, 
that he come not down, dim and dishonored, to my 
sliameful tomb ! Tell him that justice is the unchanging, 
everlasting will to give each man Ids right. I knew it, 
broke it, and am lost. Bid him keep it, and be safe ! ” 


CXIII. — OLIVER CROMWELL 


GOLDWIN SMITH. 


Goldwin Smith was born at Reading, England, in 1S23. He was educated at 
Eton and at Oxford, at both of which institutions lie distinguished himself as a 
scholar, and at the latter of which, in 1858, became Regius Professor of Modern His¬ 
tory. In 1801 he published an able work entitled “Irish History and Irish Charac¬ 
ter.” During our civil war he visited America, that he might study more closely the 
issues involved. Returning, he became, at the risk of social ostracism, a champion 
of tlie American Union, and did much to correct the mistaken public sentiment of 
England. In 1807 he published “Three English Statesmen, Pyni, Cromwell, and 
Pitt.” In the following year, having resigned his iiosition at Oxford, he became Pro¬ 
fessor of English History at Cornell University. He is a thorough student, a vigorous 
tliinker, a clear, strong, terse writer, a gentleman of spotless integrity, and an ardent 
defender of human rights. He now resides at Toronto. 


ROMWELL was a fanatic, and aR fanatics are mor- 



Vy ally the worse for tbeir fanaticism: they set dogma 
above virtue, they take their own ends for God’s ends, 
and their own enemies for his. But that this man’s 
religion was sincere, who can doubt ? 

It not only fills his most private letters, as well as his 
speeches and despatches, but it is the only clew to his 
life. For it, when past forty, happy in his family, well- 
to-do in the world, he turned out with his children and 
exposed his life to sword and bullet in obscure skir¬ 
mishes as well as in glorious fields. On his death-bed 
liis thoughts wandered, not, like tliose of Napoleon, among 
the eddies of battle, or in the mazes of state-craft, but 
among the religious questions of his youth. Constant 




OLIVER CROMWELL. 


439 


hypocrisy would have been fatal to his decision. The 
double-minded man is unstable in all his ways. This 
man was not unstable in any of his ways; his course is 
as sti’aight as that ol a great force of nature. There is 
something not only more than animal, but more than 
natural in his courage. If fanatics so often beat men 
of the world in council, it is partly because they throw 
the die of earthly destiny with a steady hand, as those 
whose great treasure is not here. 

Walking amid such perils, not of sword and bidlet 
only, but ol envious factions and intriguing enemies on 
every side, it was impossible that Cromwell should not 
contract a wariness, and perhaps more than a wariness, 
of step. It was impossible that his character should not 
in some measure reflect the darkness of his time. 

In establishing his government, he had to feel his way 
to sound men’s dispositions, to conciliate different inter¬ 
ests ; and these are processes not favorable to simplicity 
of mind, still less favorable to the appearance of it, 
yet compatible with general lionesty of purpose. As to 
wliat is called his hypocritical use of Scriptural language. 
Scriptural language was his native tongue. In it he 
spoke to his wife and children, as well as to his armies 
and liis Parliaments; it burst from his lips wlien he saw 
victory at Dunbar; it hovered on them in death, when 
policy, and almost consciousness, was gone. 

lie said that he would gladly have gone back to private 
life. It is incredible that he should have formed the de¬ 
sign, perhaps not incredible that he should have felt the 
desire, feature, no doubt, with high powers gives the 
wish to use them; and it must be bitter for one who 
knows that he can do great things to pass away before 
jireat thing’s have been done. But when great things 

O O 




440 


TEE SIXTH READER. 


have been done for a great end on an illustrious scene, 
the victor of Naseby, Dunbar, and Worcester, the savior 
of a nation’s cause, may be ready to welcome the even¬ 
ing hour of memory and repose, especially if, like Crom¬ 
well, he has a heart full of affection, and a happy home. 


-•O*- 


CXIV. —BUEIAL or JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. 

PIERPONT. 

N ot from the battle-field, 

Borne on his battered shield, 

By foes o’ercome; 

But from a nobler fight. 

In the defence of right. 

Clothed with a conqueror’s might, 

We hail him home. 

Where slavish minions cower 
Before the tyrant’s power. 

He bore the ban ; 

And, like the aged oak 

That braved the lightning’s stroke. 

When thunders round it broke. 

Stood up, a man ! 

Nay, when the storm was loud. 

And round him, like a cloud. 

Grew thick and black ; 

He single-handed strove. 

And, like Olympian Jove, 

With his own thunder, drove 
The phalanx back. 




MY GARDEN ACQUAINTANCE. 


441 


No leafy wreath we twine 
Of oak or Isthmian pine, 

To grace his hrow; 

Like his own locks of gray, 

Such wreaths would fall away. 

As will the grateful lay 

We weave him now. 

Hut Time shall touch the page 
That tells how Quincy’s sage 
Has dared to live. 

But as he touches wine. 

Or Shakespeare’s glowing line. 

Or Baphael’s form divine. 

New life to give. 

T^^ow, with the peaceful dead 
Lay his more honored head. 

Where dust returns to dust. 
That soul shall never die 
While God fills earth and sky. 

But dwell in heaven on high 

Among the kindred just. 


-♦O#- 


CXV.—MY GAEDEX ACQUAINTANCE. 

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 


T he return of the robin is commonly announced by 
the newspapers, like that of eminent or notorious 
2 :>eople to a watering-place, as the first authentic notifica¬ 
tion of spring. And such his appearance in the orchard 
and garden undoubtedly is. But, in spite of his name 
of migratory thrush, he stays with us all winter, and I 





442 


THE SIXTH READER. 


liave seen him when the thermometer marked fifteen 
degrees below zero of Fahrenheit, armed impregnably 
within, like Emerson’s titmouse, and as cheerful as he. 
The robin has a bad reputation among people who do not 
value themselves less for being fond of cherries. There 
is, I admit, a spice of vulgarity in him, and his song is 
rather of the Bloomfield sort, too largely ballasted with 
prose. 

His ethics are of the Poor Pdchard school, and the 
main chance which calls forth all his energy is altogether 
of the appetite. He never has those fine intervals of 
lunacy into which his cousins, the catbird and the mavis, 
are apt to fall. But for a’ that and twice as muckle’s a’ 
that, I would not exchange him for all the cherries that 
ever came out of Asia Minor. With whatever faults, he 
has not wlioHy forfeited that superiority which belongs 
to the children of nature. 

He has a finer taste in fruit than could be distilled 
from many successive committees of the Horticultural 
Society, and he eats with a relishing gulp not inferior to 
Dr. Johnson’s. He feels and freely exercises his right 
of eminent domain. His is the earliest mess of green 
peas; his, all the mulberries I had fancied mine. But if 
he get also the lion’s share of the raspberries, he is a 
great planter, and sows those wild ones in the woods, 
that solace the pedestrians and give a momentary calm 
even to the jaded victims of the White Hills. He keeps 
a strict eye over one’s fruit, and knows to a shade of pur¬ 
ple when your grapes have cooked long enough in the 
sun. 

During the severe drought a few years ago, the robins 
wholly vanished from my garden. I neither saw nor 
heard one for three weeks. Meanwhile, a small foreign 


MY GARDEN ACQUAINTANCE. 


443 


gTcape-vine, rather shy of bearing, seemed to find the 
dusty air congenial, and, dreaming perliaps of its sweet 
Argos across the sea, decked itself with a score or so of 
fair bunches. I watched them from day to day till they 
should have secreted sugar enough from the sunbeams, 
and at last made up my mind that I would celebrate my 
vintage the next morning. But the robins, too, had 
somehow kept note of them. They must have sent out 
spies, as did the Jews into the promised land, before I 
was stirring. When I went with my basket, at least a 
dozen of these winged vintagers bustled out from among 
the leaves, and, alighting on the nearest trees, inter¬ 
changed some shrill remarks about me of a derogatory 
nature. 

They had fairly sacked the vine. Not Wellington’s 
veterans made cleaner work of a Spanish town; not Fed- 
erals or Confederates were ever more impartial in the 
confiscation of neutral chickens. I was keeping my 
grapes a secret to surprise the fair Fidele with, but the 
robins made them a profounder secret to her than I had 
meant. The tattered remnant of a single bunch was all 
my harvest-home. How paltry it looked at the bottom 
of my basket, — as if a humming-bird liad laid her egg 
in an eagle’s nest! I could not help laughing; and the 
robins seemed to join heartily in the merriment. There 
was a native grape-vine close by, blue with its less re¬ 
fined abundance, but my cunning thieves preferred the 
foreign flavor. Could I tax them with want of taste ? 

The robins are not good solo singers, but their chorus, 
as, like primitive fire-worshippers they hail the return of 
light and warmth to the world, is unrivalled. There are 
a hundred singing like one. They are noisy enough then, 
and sing, as poets should, with no afterthought. But 



444 


THE SIXTH READER. 


when they come after cherries to the tree near my win¬ 
dow, they muffle their voices, and their faint pip, pip, 
pop ! sounds far away at the bottom of the garden, where 
they know I shall not suspect them of robbing the great 
black-walnut of its bitter-rinded store. 

They are feathered Pecksniffs, to be sure; but then 
how brightly their breasts, that look rather shabby in the 
sunlight, shine in a rainy day against the dark green of 
the fringe-tree! After they have pinched and shaken all 
the life out of an earth-worm, as Italian cooks pound all 
the spirit out of a steak, and then gulped him, they 
stand up in honest self-confidence, expand their red 
waistcoats with the virtuous air of a lobby-member, and 
outface you with an eye that calmly challenges inquiry. 
“Do I look like a bird that knows the flavor of raw 
vermin ? I throw myself upon a jury of my peers. Ask 
any robin if he ever ate anything less ascetic than the 
frugal berry of the juniper, and he will answer that his 
vow forbids him.” Can such an open bosom cover such 
depravity ? Alas ! yes. I have no doubt his breast was 
redder at that very moment with the blood of my rasp¬ 
berries. On the whole, he is a doubtful friend in the 
garden. He makes his dessert of all kinds of berries, 
and is not averse from early peas. But when we remem¬ 
ber how omnivorous he is, eating his own weight in an 
incredibly sliort time, and that Nature seems exhaustless 
in her invention of new insects hostile to vegetation, per¬ 
haps we may reckon that he does more good than harm. 
For my own part, I would rather have his cheerfulness 
and kind neighborhood than many berries. 


Cambridge : Electrotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co. 



















